Treville's Promise
by Greenlips24
Summary: Sequel to "An Unlikely Brotherhood" - Pre Season One In the six weeks that she had been incarcerated in the Chatelet, Treville had visited Elizabeth Cromwell three times. He had made a promise to himself; she will be free. That promise was eating away at him and he had a decision to make. He is a man of honour but he cannot do this alone. This may cost them all dearly.
1. Chapter 1

**Treville's Promise**

By Greenlips24

 **Pre Season One, prior to d'Artagnan**

 **This is the sequel to "An Unlikely Brotherhood" set six weeks after Elizabeth Cromwell's incarceration in the Chatelet**

oOo

 **A/N:** _Things ended badly for Elizabeth at the end of An Unlikely Brotherhood. For those of you who wondered if Treville could somehow keep his promise, let's see shall we?_

oOo

 **PREFACE:**

 **Flashback:**

 _Queen Henrietta Maria of England was safely escorted on the final leg of her return journey to Le Havre. She had the company of Sir Edmund Temple, who would explain succinctly no doubt why Elizabeth Cromwell was not with them._

 _Now, several days later, with Richelieu's return to Paris, the Cardinal and Treville faced each other once more across Richelieu's impressive desk._

" _You realise, she is a scapegoat." Treville said quietly._

" _Of course I do! But protocol declares we have a guilty party, and Sir Edmund has been very clever."_

" _So he will go back to London untainted." Treville sighed._

 _He rubbed his hand across his face,_

" _What will become of her?"_

 _Richelieu was standing over his desk, his hand running along the impressed leather._

" _That depends on the English, but I am sure they will take the word of Sir Edmund on that," Richelieu he said quickly, his long fingers now playing over his inkwell._

 _He was happy to leave the aftermath to them. As for France, secrecy was the best policy, according to the Cardinal. It avoided complications. In matters such as this, he really did have a heart of stone._

 _Treville did not like it, he knew Elizabeth Cromwell would not leave the Chatelet; but he did not speak. There was nothing more to say. He was sure that Richelieu would come up with a suitable sanitised account for her family, should it be needed._

 _As he opened the door to leave, Richelieu called out;_

" _Let us hope that Henrietta Maria remains with her husband and does not grace us with her presence for quite some time. Perhaps her people will learn to love her."_

oOo

 **CHAPTER ONE - Consequences**

It was a grey, overcast morning that found Treville standing stiffly at the window of his office, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His eyes were on Porthos, who was moving around the yard sluggishly. Since their return from the Royal Hunting Lodge in the Forest of Brotonne, the mood amongst his three best men had been sombre.

Porthos had formed an unlikely friendship with Aubin Fabron, the young Red Guard who Treville and Richelieu had teamed him with in order to protect Queen Henrietta Maria's route back to Le Havre following her visit to her brother Louis XIII. The young man's subsequent death had been a blow to him.

The mission had taken its toll on all of them.

Porthos; noisy, irreverent, _extrovert_ Porthos, now swerved between anger and a melancholy that could rival Athos at times. His eating abilities were impressive, but Treville had seen how he now often left his food on his plate, lost in thought. Athos, himself injured during the affair, was back to full health, but concerned about Porthos, and his increasingly erratic behaviour. As was Aramis, who had taken Aubin's body home and prepared the young man's family for the shock of his demise. They all knew that time would heal Porthos's heart and he would eventually make sense of it, but in the meantime, he was a force to be reckoned with and took considerable managing.

In the yard below, Treville's men were all aware of him watching them from his window. They were also aware he had left the Garrison on his off duty days, and could not be contacted; something unheard of. Aramis had ventured so far as to follow him through threatening rain on his third such disappearance. It was no surprise when he returned to report that their Captain had ridden to the Chatelet.

It was still raw for all of them, but no-one wanted to confront their Captain. So they made the best of it, and got on with their day to day duties, and each put up with the wavering moods of their comrades.

Their Captain continued to brood at his window, beneath a heavy mantle of guilt and simmering anger; distracted by dark thoughts of the young woman lost in the Chatelet.

oOo

 **The Chatelet**

The Chatelet ('small castle') was an imposing Parisian fortress, which stood on the right bank of the Seine. It had a long history, thought to have originally been built to defend the bridge that straddled the impressive river. Louis VI had made it the formidable structure they knew today. In late medieval Paris it had served as the headquarters of the official "charged with protection of royal rights, oversight of royal administration, and execution of royal justice." Over the decades, it had fallen into disrepair and proceedings were moved to the Louvre, before being returned in 1506.

The building incorporated two imposing towers which stood on either side of the city roadway which continued uninterrupted under the building. Octagonal rooms were set in the mid levels of the towers. The calottes, rooms just under the roof that formed the upper floor of the prison, were the least pleasant rooms, being more exposed to the elements and either too hot or too cold. The cachots were the underground dungeons. The main courtyard, used for exercise and executions, was equally either too hot in summer and too cold in winter.

In terms of the number of prisoners held within its damp walls, there were few. The Bastille would one day supersede it; Cardinal Richelieu was already "refurbishing" that particular facility, which lay to the east of the Chatelet.

Nearby slaughterhouses ensured that there was always an unpleasant smell around the Chatelet's perimeter. Together with the surrounding sewers that emptied into the Seine, it was, certainly, a place to be avoided at all costs; although many traders had set up their stalls in the shadow of its walls where custom was often brisk.

The Governor received money from the Crown to support the prisoners. This provided an adequate diet. The more wealthy prisoners could buy extra food and add some luxuries to make their stay more acceptable.

Elizabeth Cromwell, although from a good English family, was not wealthy.

oOo

At the time, Treville had insisted that it was he who escorted Elizabeth Cromwell to her imprisonment. She had all but shut down; accepting her fate and she was completely, utterly terrified.

He had stood beside her as the Chatelet's Governor, M. Henri Leclerc, read the missive from Richelieu. There would be no trial, no public proclamation. This was a prisoner who was to remain "unseen," until such time as terms could be agreed. The Governor, a married man with daughters of his own, had been accommodating at least and had sighed when he had read the instruction, before turning his rheumy eyes on his latest acquisition.

Treville had brought a change of clothes for her, bought with his own money, and a few other meagre items, procured from the female Garrison laundry staff. These had been accepted. M. Leclerc was not a cruel man, but neither did he wish to fall foul of Cardinal Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu. However, the hairbrush and small bar of lavender soap placed on the table in front of him were innocuous. This prisoner was to be kept apart from the others, in the short term at least, so there would be no harm in allowing such personal items, and as such, the possession of them would not cause dissent amongst any other inmates who may not take kindly to such favours.

Elizabeth had kept her eyes lowered at all times that day; not daring to look at the guard who walked ahead of them down the dark corridor to the small door at the end. This man did look intimidating, and he had no concern about looking at _her_ , Treville noticed, with a heavy heart.

The guard turned the large metal key in the lock, and pushed the heavy door open. It creaked noisily on its hinges and she stepped through into another world. Turning with wide eyes to stare at Treville, he held her gaze as he passed the bundle of clothes and personal items into her shaking hands. He was allowed no further, and the door was firmly and noisily closed between them. Her pale face briefly appeared at the small open window, barred with an uneven pattern of black metalwork, which cast shadows across her face.

The guard turned and walked away, expecting Treville to do the same; believing him to be a man just doing his duty in handing a prisoner over for incarceration. The guard would not expect to see Treville again; but he would, in fact see him again. This particular man, the Captain of the King's Musketeers, had made a promise, in the presence of his Lieutenant. In the meantime, he would keep contact with her.

Treville held Elizabeth Cromwell's gaze and her frightened eyes bored into his very soul as he leant forward, his face inches from the metalwork.

"You will not be forgotten," he said firmly.

It was as if he were speaking to a ghost, long dead; his last view of her fading as she stepped back, allowing the shadows to consume her.

Turning, he reluctantly followed the guard, his head down, his heart heavy as he felt himself imbued with a terrible emptiness at the travesty he had been an unwilling party to.

He had made a promise, and he had gone over the sorrowful evening spent with Athos that had spawned that promise many times since their return from the Forest of Brotonne. Once more, the scene came back to him;

 _Athos sat with Treville in his office, both in sombre mood. Treville's meeting with Richelieu had left a bitter taste in his mouth._

 _This whole affair had taken its toll._

 _Six dead Musketeers; one dead Red Guard. Eight of his men injured; who would bear their scars for the rest of their lives._

 _And Porthos, who would bear the scars on his heart at the loss of a young man so full of promise._

 _Plus a young woman, in the wrong place at the wrong time, who was now lost in the depths of the Chatelet._

 _But their two regiments were secure, he thought bitterly._

" _I tell you, Athos," he hissed as they shared a brandy. "I will not rest until she is free, no matter how long it takes."_

" _She was wrong, but she did not deserve her fate," Athos said in agreement._

 _They stayed in Treville's room until the brandy was gone and the skies had grown dark.*_

oOo

On his second visit to the Chatelet, Treville, on further inspection, had discovered that the Cardinal had, to his credit, had Elizabeth placed in a better cell than some; a room with a table and chair and a small window, set high. That window let in little light, but served to torment those who could only see a small patch of sky. It was a cell used for more distinguished prisoners; although Elizabeth Cromwell was certainly not one of those; merely a lady in waiting – in all senses of the word. It was still a dark and foreboding room, but it could have been infinitely worse.

She was in limbo until her release could be negotiated; if that was even possible, given her "crime" of disclosing information on the Queen's movements during her visit to France. She had been forced to do so under duress by English courtier Sir Edmund Temple, whose ultimate aim was the removal of this unpopular French Queen of England. Having threatened to incriminate Elizabeth Cromwell, on the basis of a brief conversation that he had initiated, he had ensnared her and forced her to do his bidding. By keeping him informed of the Queen's movements during their visit to France, he was able to direct a group of English assassins to first decimate Musketeer numbers and then to attempt a royal assassination. Ultimately, the attempt had been thwarted, and he had had the good fortune to return unscathed to England with the Royal Party, leaving Elizabeth Cromwell to her fate.

Richelieu himself had recognised her middle-class upbringing and perhaps, he too still felt the twinge of conscience he had initially shown when he and Treville had first spoken about her fate.

However, the sparse negotiations between minor officials in France and England were becoming increasingly fraught and both sides where falling silent.

oOo

Now, as he rode back to the Garrison after his third visit to the Chatelet, Treville remembered the bright young woman who had sought to fight back against the man who had wound her tightly in his web. The young woman who had refused to disclose the last minute change of plans Queen Henrietta Maria had ordered, thus thwarting Sir Edmund Temple and ultimately, saving the Queen's life. She who had ridden with him, away from the Royal Hunting Lodge, knowing she may be an assassin's target; who had accepted his pistol and felled one of the assassins who had followed them. A young woman who had been brave and strong, and who had ultimately been sacrificed as a scapegoat to save Louis's embarrassment and his sister's discomfort.

She had Richelieu's protection, and no guard would dare to touch her or mistreat her. But that protection could not last forever, and Treville knew that the King was oblivious to that concession. If he found out, Richelieu would be forced to withdraw that protection. The King had been in no mood to discuss Elizabeth Cromwell, having consigned the whole affair to the back of his mind. Richelieu would too, lose interest and return fully to affairs of state, and the time for negotiations with the English court would be gone. Henrietta Maria, herself, had been silent. She had a quick temper; she was her mother's daughter. She also had a certain courtier dripping poison in her ear. Sir Edmund Temple would ensure negotiations would be fraught. Time was running out.

As he rode hard, through dark storm clouds that now began to rumble mightily overhead, he felt the increasing weight of the injustice to her.

But something had changed.

As he flew through the dark night, lit up with the blaze of lightning that cracked above him, he began to see this injustice as no longer the destroyer of everything he had held honourable, but the foundation of his promise. His sworn promise as a Musketeer to protect, to serve, and to uphold the law. As Musketeers, he and his men were commissioned by the King himself to protect the Royal Family, but also to serve his people, wherever injustice was found. The oath he expected all his men to uphold.

He spurred his horse on through the driving rain, soaked to the skin now, but lighter than he had felt in weeks.

 _She will be free._

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 **A/N** Henri Leclerc is a fictional name.

 ***** Chapter 23:"An Unlikely Brotherhood."

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

 **The following morning:**

 **The Louvre**

"She is under my protection, Captain Treville," Cardinal Richelieu said wearily, eyeing the man sitting on the opposite side of his desk. "You will have _seen_ on your latest visit," he emphasised, "that she is in more salubrious circumstances than many of her fellow inmates," he added.

Treville had gone straight to the Louvre the following morning to speak to the Cardinal. He was not sure about _what_ exactly, but he was finding it more and more difficult to hold this within himself.

Treville had reported that her prison cell was less than adequate, and the guards themselves less than chivalrous. Richelieu, ever with his eye on the prize, feared that if she were to be freed by some miracle, it would fall on him to explain any mistreatment. It was also expedient on him to maintain her good health, both physical and mental, should she be called to testify against Sir Edmund Temple.

Treville met his gaze. Richelieu knew he had been visiting Elizabeth Cromwell, but Treville was surprised that he was so well informed on that particular point; his latest visit being only the day before. The man's network of spies was obviously keeping him well informed.

"Yes, I am aware of that," Treville reluctantly conceded.

Richelieu was many things, but he was a man of God, and to some degree, he accepted, he must hold his fellow man in regard. Now, he was an astute political manipulator; becoming more ruthless as time passed, with fingers in many a pie. At some point, his protection of this woman would cease.

"Be very careful," Richelieu murmured; "I am aware of your notion of honour, Captain, but I fear in this case it is misplaced. There is really nothing that can be done if our King decides she is in the best place. She is of no value to France. She is, at best, an embarrassment. Besides which, he has no plan to speak to his sister for some considerable time. Negotiations for her lady in waiting's release are therefore somewhat ... _stalled."_ he finished, drawing out the final word in emphasis of his point.

"No value to France?!" Treville hissed, his jaw tight. "Queen Henrietta Maria harbours a traitor in her court!"

"She does indeed," Richelieu said quietly, rising to his feet and moving to his cabinet. "And she knows nothing of it," he added wearily. "But perhaps it is time to let sleeping dogs lie."

Treville did not like the way this conversation was going.

"Henrietta Maria is a daughter of France," Treville continued, watching Richelieu pour wine into two goblets. "This man may not be finished with his quest to rid England of its French queen."

They fell into silence then, both no doubt contemplating Sir Edmund Temple, funder of failed assassins.

Richelieu turned and walked slowly across to Treville, handing him one of the goblets. His other hand reached for the ornate cross hanging around his neck.

Still he said nothing.

"She needs to know," Treville persisted. "If the King of England were ever to learn that France knew all along that Temple was a traitor and had said nothing, the consequences could be disastrous. Far from being "of no value to France," Elizabeth Cromwell is the _key_."

Richelieu swallowed a mouthful of wine hurriedly and Treville held his peace; aware now of his racing heart and dry mouth. A dull ache was starting behind his eyes.

Just as he thought he had lost his argument with this most difficult of men, the Cardinal sighed and gently placed his glass on his desk, taking his seat.

"What do you propose?" he said, hawk-like eyes fixed on the Captain of the King's Musketeers.

Treville was ready; his breathing now easing.

"She should be discreetly returned to the English Court to give testimony against Edmund Temple."

"By "discreetly," you mean without the King's knowledge, and under his Royal nose?"

Treville watched him carefully.

It never did to admit anything to this man before the consequences were fully explored. What they were skirting around was treason. He was very well aware that Richelieu was ruthless, and would put down any revolts aggressively; but, ultimately, he depended upon the King's confidence to keep his political power. However, he was also a good Frenchman; putting his country and its rulers above all else and it was upon this, that Treville was relying.

Waking and sleeping, Treville had explored every avenue. He still came to the same conclusion. When he answered, it was with an air of abandonment. His answer would put all on the line.

"I do," he replied.

Richelieu stood suddenly, and Treville narrowed his eyes; the dull ache behind them spiking sharply.

"Let me think on it," he said, and their meeting was, apparently, over.

Richelieu intensely disliked being in such a position; he had too much to lose. But he was well aware that time was running out and some plan had to be made. But, if he expected Treville to cease his entreaties, he was frustrated, as the man now rose and held his ground.

"I cannot do this without you," Treville said quietly. He too did not like being in such a position, but it was a fact that in this affair, theirs was now an uneasy alliance. They were damned if they did not act, and most probably, damned if they did.

"As you say," Richelieu finally conceded,"If it were to come out that we had knowledge of this threat, we would all be damned."

Treville remained silent, and it was the Cardinal who had the last word.

"Whatever happens, this will be on _your_ head, Treville. I cannot discuss this with the King unless the outcome is favourable."

Treville gave a brief tilt of his head. He had expected no less.

For the time being, there was nothing more to be said, as the enormity of their discussion fell around them.

Their duty was to France. Queen Henrietta Maria was French. Once more, all was at stake.

oOo

 **The Garrison Stables**

Porthos's days were not improving. He had taken himself off to the stables after he had been much too aggressive in training that morning. A person could not withstand being body-slammed into the dirt again and again until he could not rise. Athos had all but roared at him when he came out of Treville's office and witnessed the mayhem he was causing below. All had fallen silent then, and Porthos had looked from Athos, who had literally leapt off the last two steps to push him back, to Marcel Bernier, who had now at least managed to roll onto his front, but was still struggling to breathe.

Grabbing Bernier by the arm, and with the help of two other Musketeers, Athos had pulled the struggling man to his knees, while at the same time glaring at Porthos and ordering him to "BACK OFF!"

Porthos had faltered then, and mumbled his apologies, but Athos had not allowed him any further involvement with Bernier, and so he had stumbled toward the stables. There he had sat with his head in his hands, before rising dejectedly to tidy up the bridles and give the nearest horse a cursory scratch behind its ear.

"What you lookin' at?" Porthos muttered, moving around the horses.

Aubin, being Aubin, laughed.

"You are spoiling for a fight, _Bragarreur_ ," came the soft, laughing voice.

Porthos looked across at the window at the back of the stable. He could almost see Aubin perched on the window sill, a smile on his face; dust motes floating around his blond hair.

Porthos growled.

"Had to get 'yerself killed, didn't ya?" he muttered.

"It could have been any one of us," came the soft reply. "At least I didn't do anything foolish."

"No," Porthos sighed, sitting down on a nearby bale of straw. "No, you didn't," he said, a smile in his voice now. "You fought well, for a Red Guard," he added, thinking of the pauldron he had slotted onto his arm. "You died a Musketeer."

When he looked up, Aubin was gone.

oOo

 **Later:**

 **The Garrison**

Athos's report on Porthos's behaviour was the last straw for Treville. He was tired of going around in circles, tired of the secrecy and the charged atmosphere. And so he told his Lieutenant of his discussion with Richelieu.

They were standing in the Armoury, alone. Treville had closed and barred the door and was now sitting at the table bearing the weapons that needed to be cleaned that day.

"We are going to do WHAT?!" Athos said, each word enunciated clearly, clipped into shape like dark, hard granite.

"Not _we_ ," Treville replied, feeling all his years. "Me. I want you to take care of the Garrison. No one must know."

Athos pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on and crossed the room in three strides.

Treville expected a response, but the silence that fell in the room had him raising his head to look at his Lieutenant.

Treville smiled.

"You are speechless," he said softly.

"And you are insane," Athos replied. "With respect," he conceded, dropping into a chair without being asked.

Treville let it go. It was not everyday his Lieutenant, however succinct, was completely lost for words.

Finally, Athos ventured a comment, having had chance to weigh up his Captain's likely response and anticipating the reaction it would elicit.

"She does not deserve her fate, you know I have said that; but no good can come of this."

The reaction Athos anticipated came with sudden fury, as Treville banged his fist on the table.

"We are Musketeers!" he shouted. "All for One! Or does that only apply to our own?!"

Spent, Treville unclenched his fist and raised his hand to rub it across his forehead, the familiar dull ache turning into a more substantial headache.

"If so, Athos, I would have your advice," he said quietly, pinning his Lieutenant with steel grey-blue eyes as he continued to rub his forehead.

Athos met his gaze, before reaching forward to run his gloved hand across the stock of an arquebus, laying in pieces on the table.

"I cannot advise you on this," Athos said quietly. "I find that people only ask for advice that they may not follow it or if they should follow it, that they may have somebody to blame for having given it.* In this, I believe you have already made up your mind."

Treville sighed, but the nod he gave Athos and his wave of dismissal was confirmation of his intent.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 **A/N:**

 _Bragarreur_ : brawler; scrapper; feisty. A term used by Aubin in An Unlikely Brotherhood.

*Athos speaks these words in The Three Musketeers.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 **Later that evening:**

When the day was done, Athos gathered Aramis and Porthos and insisted they all adjourn to The Jolly Miller; a tavern some distance away from their usual after-duty haunt, but still within walking distance. They followed him without question; the look on his face confirming whatever he had to tell them was of great importance.

The tavern was busy; its clientele comprising both local people and travellers. It was a hostelry favoured by Athos for its many nooks and crannies. A person could secrete themselves in one of the alcoves and easily become lost in both shadow and melancholy. Athos had steered them to a further-most table where their conversation would not be easily overhead.

They ordered wine and food and waited in silence. The wine arrived quickly and Athos waited until the barmaid had swiped a cloth across the table and lit a tallow candle before he relayed his conversation with their Captain.

"Is he serious?!" Porthos said loudly, which earned him a hard glare and a raised finger.

"Deadly serious," Athos replied, as Porthos lowered his eyes in contrition. "And he does not want our help," he added, pouring wine into three pewter cups; offering the first to Porthos.

"So 'ow do we do this so he doesn't know?" Porthos asked quietly; acknowledging the gesture and accepting the amnesty.

Athos looked at each of them. It was why he loved his brothers. They would all follow each other wherever they were needed, whether wanted or not, and they always included their Captain in that.

"We risk everything in this, Brothers," Athos replied softly, tapping his now-empty cup thoughtfully on the table.

Aramis, reached across and stilled his hand; speaking for the first time, having weighed up their discussion.

"We have all met this lady," he said quietly. "We know this is a travesty of justice, and we know who _should_ be in the Chatelet."

"I know what I'd like to do," Porthos growled, sitting back and staring menacingly around the room.

"And, it is what we do best, mon ami," Aramis replied, with a smile in his voice; understanding exactly what he meant but seeking to placate his agitated brother. Porthos grunted, but did slowly relax and they sat in silence for a while; the weight of their discussion felt by all.

Athos refilled their cups and ordered more wine.

The wine arrived with the food order and they waited again while the barmaid set the tray on the table and retreated.

Athos gave them a brief smile. "Besides," he said softly, "We are men, and after all it is our business to risk our lives."*

"You are right," Aramis replied, brightening. "How else do we know we are alive!"

Porthos huffed, pulling a bowl of mutton stew toward him;

"God protects drunkards and lovers* Where does that leave me?"

Aramis laughed and slapped Porthos on the shoulder.

"It will not be easy, by any means," Athos said, picking up their discussion.

It was getting warm and someone threw open a window and they were momentarily distracted.

"The merit of all things lies in their difficulty*," Aramis replied sagely, digging into his food.

"So it's agreed, we are going to help our Captain break a woman out of the Chatelet, where she is held on the Crown's orders, so that he can return her to England to testify against a member of the English Court, without the said Crown knowing," Athos recounted. "Just, the Cardinal."

They each looked at each other.

"And if we are caught," Porthos added, waving his fork at them, "Richelieu will deny all knowledge of us, an' we will all hang."

"And if we succeed?" Aramis asked, pushing the remaining bowl of stew toward Athos.

"Fame and money would be nice," Porthos grumbled, shoving his now-empty bowl aside with a sigh.

Athos held up his cup, in salute.

"To irony," he pronounced.

Aramis looked at his friend. Athos was obviously torn between duty to the Crown and his loyalty to their Captain.

"This is to bring _peace_ to the Captain too, my friend," the marksman said gently. Then he held up his own cup and winked at Athos; "To honour!"

Athos's mood softened at that and he and Aramis touched their cups together lightly.

Porthos looked longingly at Athos's untouched stew.

"You gonna eat that?" he grunted.

Athos and Aramis still had their cups in the air and were looking at him expectantly.

Porthos finally relented and held up his own cup with a huff.

"To honourable irony," he muttered, as he joined the toast.

Athos smiled and pushed his bowl of untouched stew in Porthos's direction.

Just how they were going to do this, remained to be seen.

As he swallowed the last of his wine, and picked up his discarded fork, Porthos thought he heard a certain young man's gentle laugh somewhere behind him, but shook it off and dug in.

oOo

Later that week, things took an interesting turn when a large wooden chest was delivered to the Garrison on the back of a cart, pulled by a two-horse team. The cart rumbled noisily through the archway and came to a stop in the yard.

Puzzled, Treville watched from his balcony as the chest was unloaded by the driver and his mate and left at the foot of the staircase beneath him. The driver made his way toward the staircase, pointed out to him by the passing stable boy. Treville met the man halfway down the stairs and took the missive thrust his way. Turning it over, he saw that it bore Cardinal Richelieu's seal.

Athos quietly crossed the yard and followed him back up the stairs, halting in the open doorway and watching quietly as Treville took his seat behind his desk and broke the seal; frowning as he read the contents. Inside, there was also an iron key.

He looked up and met Athos's enquiring gaze.

"It seems the Cardinal feels Mistress Cromwell would benefit from a selection of books from his personal library."

"That is most generous of his Eminence," Athos murmured, as they both retreated back down the steps to examine the chest.

Slipping the key into the lock, Treville unlocked the chest and lifted the lid. They both peered inside.

oOo

Treville had the chest moved to the Armoury and later, he and Athos went to examine the contents more closely.

Lifting the lid once more, Treville reached in and removed one of the books. It was a play on war theory by Jacobus Pontanus, "Soldier or Scholar: Stratocels or War." It appeared to be a random selection; differing in size and with no particular theme, save for being both weighty and possibly heavy-going for a young woman. But he supposed they would at least afford a break from the boredom she was no doubt enduring.

Athos was running his fingers along the books, lost in thought. Suddenly, he began to remove them one by one, and piled them up on the floor behind him. After he had removed a dozen or so, his fingers scraped along a flat surface. It seemed they had been placed on a wooden shelf; a false lid, which appeared to have been expertly fitted within the top third of the chest to hold the books. Running his fingers around the rim, Athos found a small sprung lever sited beneath the lip, and pressed. The lid gave a small upward movement and Athos lifted it easily, where it stayed, hinged along one side. Beneath, they saw that two thirds of the space, remained empty.

They both looked at each other, and Treville smiled.

Athos climbed inside and lay down, stretching out his legs and indicating for Treville to shut the lid on him. Treville took the torch from the wall and then walked around the chest, allowing the flame to play close to the sides of the chest. Releasing the lid easily from the inside and flinging it open, Athos sat up.

"I could see the flame, and there is space enough to breathe and to recline. I do not know for how long, but it is possible."

Treville examined the outsides of the chest thoroughly; no gaps or chinks could be seen. It was well constructed.

"Do you think this is his own chest, or has he had it made?" Treville said with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"I would put nothing past our dear Cardinal. I am sure there will be such items and secret hiding places all over his residence. On this occasion, though, I applaud him," Athos replied, looking at the chest in admiration.

oOo

Treville had long since accepted that he could not do anything like this without his three best soldiers supporting him, whether he wanted them to or not. The arrival of the chest had spurred him to take them into his confidence.

So it was that that evening, with their spirits higher than they had been since Queen Henrietta Maria's return to her husband, King Charles I of England, the four of them sat in Treville's office and made plans. Their plans could be construed as treasonous, but at least they had Richelieu's tentative approval. Even though they knew that he would deny any such involvement and would be quite happy to carry out Louis's order to hang the lot of them, should their plans fail.

But tonight, the wine flowed. They were in this together.

Unbenown to her, Elizabeth Cromwell had a determined champion in the Captain of the King's Musketeers.

In the morning, Treville would ensure that the wooden chest was delivered to Elizabeth's cell at the Chatelet, at the behest of His Eminence Cardinal Richelieu himself.

The game was on.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 **A/N:** The Jolly Miller tavern appeared in "The Three Musketeers."

*Athos and Porthos speak these words in "The Three Musketeers."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Many thanks for reading and reviewing. Thanks to **Beeblegirl,** **Justaguest** and **Guest** who I cannot thank through review messaging.

oOo

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

 **The Louvre**

 **The Plan Unfolds: Tact, Diplomacy and Outright Lies**

It had been a long and tedious morning in the Louvre.

"Where is Captain Treville?" the King asked for the second time in an hour. Louis was in a particularly skittish mood this morning, and it was taking all of Richelieu's tact and diplomacy to keep his attention.

Richelieu sighed inwardly and watched as the last of this morning's petitioners finally made their way out of the room.

"He is engaged on a matter of security, Sire. He has been requested to escort Bishop Liebeault to his parish in the diocese of Maillezias."

Treville's absence for the next few days needed a worthy explanation, and this one would ensure some days grace. The King was aware of the Bishop's recent visit to Paris, but had not had the time to meet him on this occasion; leaving the pleasantries to his Cardinal.

Louis frowned, his beautifully-shod foot tapping on the gleaming black and white tiled floor.

"Why does the Captain of my Musketeers have to escort him?"

"Because the Bishop is transporting a precious icon between two of his abbeys. He wishes to travel quietly but safely, and not draw attention to himself," Richelieu intoned patiently, the lie slipping easily from his lips.

"I could think of no-one more suitable, Sire," he added. "The Bishop has been a good friend to us."

In fact, Richelieu had always found the man over-bearing and insufferable, but in the coming endeavour, he had at least found a use for him, if in name only, and he evoked his name readily.

Of course, there was no "precious icon" and the Bishop travelled lightly. It was a harmless, but useful lie. The sooner the Bishop left Paris the better, and Richelieu had already made the arrangements for a small Red Guard escort to expedite matters.

Before Louis could ask another Treville-related question, the Cardinal deftly placed the large pile of parchments he had been holding before the petulant King.

In response, Louis huffed and screwed up his face, looking for all-the-world like a three year old child.

"I'm _bored_ , Cardinal!" he whined.

"Just these, Sire, and then we can take a walk in the garden."

"The garden!" Louis cried, leaping to his feet and rushing to the window.

Richelieu's lips pressed tightly together in agitation but he followed his King and stood at his back; his hands held tightly behind him beneath his cloak, fingernails digging into his palms.

Below them, amongst the box hedges and roses, was a sea of blue cloaks.

"My," the King said, "so many Musketeers! I do not think we have seen the like, Cardinal," Louis said.

"No indeed, Your Majesty," Richelieu said, joining him at the window and relaxing at the sight below them.

The last thing Richelieu needed was for the King to complain he was defenceless in light of Treville's absence. It seemed that Treville had had the same thought.

Later, when Louis looked out of his window again, his Musketeers were still standing there, in formation.

"We are well guarded today, Cardinal. What are they doing?"

"They are waiting to take you hunting, Sire," Richelieu played his final card.

"Hunting?" Louis replied, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"Yes, a _surprise_ , Sire. Baron de Beaufort has invited you to join him at his Estate in Rouen."

This, at least, was not a lie.

"Really? That is a surprise to me Cardinal. We have not seen the Baron at court for quite some time."

"Oh, he was very insistent, Sire. He realises he has not shown due respect to Your Majesties, and wishes to make amends," the Cardinal trotted out.

"Oh!" Louis looked pleased, and appeared to be mollified by the Cardinal's explanation. The Baron de Beaufort's estate was renowned for being well stocked with all manner of game and he had a reputation for excellent entertainment and largesse.

"You will be gone for several days, and," he waved his hand over the documents, "Once we have completed Affairs of State, there is nothing to stop Your Majesty taking up his very generous offer."

An offer, thought Richelieu through gritted teeth, that _he_ would be paying the reluctant Baron for, for quite some time.

oOo

Meanwhile, Treville, Athos, Porthos and Aramis had tethered their horses and were striding into the Chatelet, with Musketeer Cadet Dupois following in their wake.

Seeking Governor Henri Leclerc, Treville and Athos entered his office, whilst Porthos, Aramis and Dupois remained outside.

Looking up and seeing the Musketeers brandishing their weapons and on high alert, Leclerc rose suddenly to his feet; his chair scraping on the stone floor.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, waving his hand at them, and the men he could see hovering in the corridor.

"Our apologies, Governor Leclerc," Treville said, "but we have reason to believe there is a threat to His Majesty's gold reserves. I must request you allow us to search the floors and that the guards on the vaults are doubled immediately.

Louis's wealth was deposited around Paris in various forms, but his gold reserves were buried deep under the Chatelet. It was an astute move, given that the guards in the facility were on constant duty and the building itself was a granite fortress.

Leclerc was horrified. He prided himself on running a secure facility and had no desire to bring dishonour upon himself by failing in his task. Likewise, he had no desire to fall foul of the King or the Cardinal and so he agreed to Treville's curt request.

Treville thanked him and ordered Athos to search the upper floors, and Aramis and Porthos to take the dungeons below ground. He turned on his heel, taking his cadet to search the central floor.

Left alone, Leclerc began shouting his own orders, and soon the sound of running feet and shouting could be heard throughout the building. Chatelet guards were sent to the vaults to check and stand guard and to the other floors to accompany and assist the King's Musketeers.

Amongst the guards was Gaspar Recule, a jailer of one year's service. He has seen Treville visiting the mysterious prisoner on the central floor over the last few weeks. It was he who first escorted the woman into her cell with this man in attendance. Now, he was caught up in the noise and confusion, but stayed close behind Treville and his cadet, as they checked on the prisoner. Recule told Elizabeth to step back before unlocking her cell and stepping aside to allow Treville through. He remained in the corridor with the cadet, allowing Treville a few moments to assure himself that Mistress Cromwell was safe and secure in her cell, before escorting them back down the corridor.

On the upper floor, Athos was leaning against the wall, his arms folded, peering out of the small window to the courtyard below, biding time.

Porthos was enjoying himself, making as much noise as he could, bellowing at the guards to open each cell. Aramis was behind him, but less noisy; looking for an empty cell he could make use of.

oOo

The chest had been delivered a few days earlier, and Treville had sat with Elizabeth, showing her the books, whilst at the same time, in a low voice, explaining the inventiveness of the chest. He told her the chest would be put to good use on a specified morning, and she should be ready; he would return on that morning to explain.

That day had now arrived, and the few moments Treville had spent with Elizabeth had been time enough to pass her a small, hand-written note.

They were _leaving_ , he had said gently, as he pushed it into her hand. All she had to do was follow these instructions.

And then he had left the cell.

oOo

Once Treville had gone, Elizabeth had read the note and then burned it in the flame of the candle and ground the remains into ash with her heel. She then lifted the lid of the chest, and removed the books. Finding the hidden catch she had been told about, she had released the inner lid easily; discovering the clothes inside. Taking them out, she saw this was a man's leather uniform. Not the very distinctive uniform she had seen Athos and Porthos wearing, but a less striking version, more utilitarian; and smaller. She realised then, that it was a cadet's uniform, similar to the one she had seen on the young man who had accompanied Treville earlier on his brief visit, when he had given her the note; before the place descended completely into chaos.

She could hear Porthos bellowing, as he moved between her floor and the one below. That, she understood, was her cue.

She was to change into this uniform, and then replace the books on the shelf. She was to put her own clothes in the chest, as Treville had impressed upon her that he did not want them to be found. There was also a hat, which he insisted that she must wear, when the time came, to hide her hair. There was enough of a gap that she could then squeeze herself under the laden shelf; the weight of the books keeping them securely in place. She was then to lie in the chest, pulling the shelf down over her.

Subsequently, when the guard and Treville came back a second time, amid the unlocking and searching of cells and the noise and chaos of the morning's events, she was well hidden within the chest. She heard Treville roar indignantly at her supposed "escape."

"What witchcraft is this?!" the jailer had bellowed as he stomped around the room.

She heard her bed being tossed aside, and items thrown from her small table. She had felt the lid of the chest fly open above her, and had held her breath, but then it was slammed down again and she heard single footsteps hurrying away; no doubt to raise the alarm. Two swift taps on the chest from Treville and she was reassured that the jailer had gone, and his plan was underway.

Deep in the bowels of the Chatelet, Aramis found an empty cell. Making sure he was alone, he set a small fire in the corner, piling straw on top. Fanning the flames with his hat he paused until it caught, and then quickly left the cell to meet up with Porthos. Elsewhere, Athos was causing the Governor grief, and Treville and Cadet Dupois were about their own tasks.

A short while later, amid the mayhem, word reached Governor Henri Leclerc that his mysterious prisoner's cell was empty, and the prisoner was nowhere to be found.

The Governor was apoplectic with rage.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 **A/N:** The Diocese of Maillezias became the Diocese of La Rochelle.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Governor Henri Leclerc could not believe his ears.

One of his most important prisoners had escaped. His prison was under attack from unknown sources seeking the King's gold, there had been a fire in one of the lower cells and he was being spoken to by a Musketeer as though he were an incompetent fool.

Which at the moment, was precisely how he was feeling.

"It seems, M. Leclerc, that an important prisoner has been spirited away under the noses of your guards, fooled by the age-old diversion of distraction by fire," Athos said.

"It is impossible!" Leclerc spluttered, under the steady gaze of the Musketeer Lieutenant; the attempt on the King's gold all but forgotten in light of this event.

"Perhaps you should see for yourself," the Musketeer was saying, already half way through the door and obviously expecting to be followed.

Seeing no alternative, Leclerc, his confusion obvious, rose and followed Athos out of his office as he strode through the building to the now-empty cell of one of his most noteworthy prisoners. The Musketeer stood aside and allowed Leclerc to enter. The cell was certainly empty. It appeared to have been thoroughly searched; the overturned furniture had not been righted.

"His Eminence the Cardinal will not be pleased," Athos sighed as he came up behind Leclerc, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

They stood quietly together in the centre of the cell.

Leclerc had been running various scenarios through his mind as to the Cardinal's reaction; none of them good.

It seemed however, that the Musketeer was not finished.

"Captain Treville will wish to begin an investigation into the disappearance of Mistress Cromwell as soon as possible," the Lieutenant added, before turning and looking at the chest.

"Of course," Leclerc replied bitterly. "You will have every co-operation."

Leclerc was looking utterly deflated beside him, and Athos almost felt a twinge of sympathy for him.

"Perhaps you should arrange to have _this_ returned to His Eminence," Athos said to the Governor quietly, nodding toward the book chest. "These books are from his private collection."

Keeping in the Cardinal's good graces was still paramount to Leclerc. At least he could ensure his books were returned unscathed; and so he acquiesced, readily seizing the slim lifeline that was offered.

"It will be returned to the Louvre within the hour," he grumbled. "I will see to it personally."

Athos gave him a tip of his head, now throwing in a stern look for good measure.

"We shall ensure a thorough investigation" Athos reitterated. "It is important that this prisoner is found, and incarcerated once more in a more appropriate location."

The Governor met the Musketeer's gaze with a glare of his own, before straightening his back and turning to leave.

"If you can find a more appropriate location, Musketeer, I will be happy to turn the key in the lock myself," he spat out as he stomped angrily back along the passageway to his office to take charge of the prison once more after the morning's mayhem.

Athos gave the chest one last look and left the cell.

oOo

 **An hour later:**

The two grunting men loading the heavy chest onto the cart were sweating in the afternoon sun.

At last, it was in position, and they hoisted themselves up onto the wooden driver's bench. One of the men leant over and released the brake lever on his side of the cart, and the other took up the reins. Shucking the horses into motion, the cart pulled slowly away from the Chatelet, and onto the road on its journey to the Louvre.

At the same time, Athos strode out of the main entrance and headed toward the horses, now being held by Aramis. There was no sign of Treville or the cadet, but Athos did not expect to see them now. Aramis gave him a nod, and they both swung into their saddles and waited for Porthos to emerge. A few moments later, Porthos strode out, clapping his gloved hands together and trying to suppress a grin.

"Good fire, brother," he muttered to Aramis, as he mounted his own horse.

"Careless of them to leave so much straw around," Aramis smiled.

Athos rolled his eyes, and whipped his horse around, taking off ahead of them. Aramis gave Porthos a nod and they both quickly followed. As far as they were concerned, this mission had gone smoothly. They had caused their diversion, and Treville had proceeded on the back of the mayhem. Elizabeth Cromwell's cell was now empty, and all was surely well.

oOo

The cart rumbled on.

"What's in it?" one of the two men said, nodding back toward the chest in the back of the cart. He had been stealing looks behind him since they set off from The Chatelet. He had been pulled into this trip at the last minute, when Gravois had paid him a few coins for his assistance. Otherwise, he would be in a tavern somewhere in a Paris backstreet, where his wife could not find him. If there were spoils to be had on this trip, he wanted his share.

"How the 'ell do I know?" Gravois muttered, his eyes on the road. "You think they tell me? I'm just a peasant who must follow orders; and this chest is for Richelieu himself."

They rode in silence along the bumpy road for a few more minutes, before the first man spoke again.

"Let's have a look, then."

Gravois shot him a look, but did not respond. He did not know this man Bernard well, and was beginning to regret employing him. All he wanted to do was get this chest back to the Louvre and collect his payment. The Governor could have sent for one of Richelieu's Red Guard to collect it, but he had chosen him, a handy-man instead. If he completed this task, there may be other jobs he may be asked to do. There may even be a tip, once they reached the Louvre. Anything that supplemented his meagre wages would be welcomed at the moment. Bernard was still looking behind him at the chest, and so he yelled at the horses to spur them on, eager to be done and free of this man.

Half an hour later, he could feel Bernard tensing beside him. He wasn't going to let this drop.

"Forget it, Bernard," he growled. "You don't want to get on the wrong side of Cardinal Richelieu. He's the second most powerful man in France. We'll both end up at the bottom of the Seine if..."

He did not get chance to finish his sentence, as Bernard drew a knife swiftly across his throat and pushed him unceremoniously out of the cart. Gravois fell heavily, and Bernard leaned over the cart and watched impassively as his victim grasped desperately at his throat in an attempt to stem the unstoppable flow of dark blood gushing through his fingers.

Finally, he was still. If he was found it would be assumed he was a seemingly sorry victim of bandits.

Bernard pulled on the reins to still the horses, frightened by the sudden disruption to their steady pace. Wrapping the reins around the brake lever, he hurriedly leapt into the back of the cart. Crouching beside the chest, he ran his hands reverently over the chest and smiled slyly in anticipation of the treasures within.

He would destroy the chest after he had plundered it, and no-one would ever know. It would be put down to a roadside robbery; especially if Gravois' body was still in evidence nearby.

Kneeling closer, he noted the lid was unlocked and moved his hands to the sides of the lid. Taking a breath, he licked his lips and lifted it up, allowed it to fall back.

What he saw made him gasp.

 **To be continued ...**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

 _Books?!_

Bernard's body sagged as he looked at the books laid out before him. Picking one up, he noted it was a handsome volume but, as he could not read, it had no meaning to him. As such, he could not sell them, and it would be obvious they belonged to someone far above his own station! He may even be accused of stealing; a sure death sentence. He could not believe his bad luck. Cursing, he began to throw the books one by one out of the cart onto the grass verge.

Dipping his hand down between the books, his fingers suddenly scraped on a wooden surface. That was strange; the chest was at least two thirds deeper than this wooden lid.

He removed all the books and looked at the internal lid that was left under his hands. Ignorant of the hidden lever, he took out his knife, and ran it along the edge where the shelf sat against the wooden sides of the chest and twisted until he could sink it deeper and begin to lever this lid out.

His luck may still be in, he thought, as he worked.

This lid lifted slightly and he levered again, gaining enough space to push his fingers inside. After a few moments, it came up and he lifted it toward him and peered inside.

It was empty, save for a woman's simple dress, shoes and chemise.

He dragged the meagre items out with an angry cry and tossed them behind him. Once he had calmed down, he picked up the discarded dress again and examined it. At least he may be able to sell it, plain as it was; his only saleable piece of booty.

Pushing the empty chest off the back of the cart, he dragged it into the woodland and set fire to it, tossing the books into the fire with some satisfaction.

That sly old Cardinal could whistle for his chest.

And his damn books.

Whatever the purpose of this chest, he could not fathom, but he made sure no-one else would know what had happened to it, including His Eminence.

Stepping over Gravois body, he untied the two horses and led them off. At least they would make enough to fund a visit to the nearest tavern, with enough left to keep his wife happy when he eventually returned to her.

oOo

Leaving Porthos and Aramis to return to the Garrison, Athos raised his hand to them at the fork in the road and turned his horse to now ride hard back to the Louvre.

He left his horse at the Royal stables and walked briskly around to the ornate gardens. He could almost forget where he was in the bright sunshine amongst the intricate flowerbeds and wide pathways; but he could not forget _who_ he was here to meet.

As he walked in the gardens he caught sight of the man in question walking briskly down the pathway between the low box hedging, boots crunching on the gravel; his cape billowing behind him.

"All went well?" Richelieu asked, his voice low; eyes scanning his surroundings, before turning his intense gaze to Athos.

"Yes, Eminence," Athos removed his hat and inclined his head in an approximation of respect for his office, if not for the man. "Your gift was delivered, and has been utilised."

"The prisoner in question and your Captain are together?"

"They are."

Richelieu handed over his letter of authority, with a brief explanation that he was to convey to Treville.

"If this fails, it will be on his head," Richelieu added quietly; unnecessarily in Athos's opinion. _Of course it will_ , he thought. None of them were under any illusions as to the consequences of failure in this mission.

Athos schooled his featured to neutral.

"Indeed, that is quite clear," he replied, pushing the letter inside his jacket.

"I commend you on your planning, Lieutenant," Richelieu said, looking away. "I could have use for a man like you," he added, looking thoughtfully toward the palace, before drawing his cape around him and turning back towards his apartments without another word; knowing he would not receive an acknowledgement to his statement from the Musketeer.

Athos watched the man's back as he swept back along the gravel pathway.

"Would _that_ day hopefully never arrive," he muttered to himself, as he made his way out of the Royal grounds.

He had one more appointment to keep.

oOo

 **A small house on the outskirts of Paris.**

Elizabeth Cromwell perched on a wooden settle next to the hearth of the small house she and Treville had ridden to, following her swift exit from the Chatelet.

It was a house that Treville had owned for some years. Few knew of it. He had found it useful over the years as a place for quiet respite; not only for himself, but for any of his men who may need it from time to time. It was very sparsely furnished, befitting a man such as he; just the bare essentials scattered around the room. However, at the moment, despite its sparse functionality, the house was fulfilling its purpose.

She looked an incongruous sight, and had not spoken since they had arrived and Treville had steered her to her present seat. Her pale, wide eyes followed Treville as he moved around the room, gathering provisions that had obviously been left for them prior to their arrival. There was a slight tension in his shoulders and the ever-present frown on his face that she had become familiar with of late; but he overall seemed relaxed and purposeful.

He cast frequent glances at her and, on one occasion, their eyes had locked; both aware of what they had done. Nothing was said, but she had given him a very slight nod and the vaguest of smiles in gratitude.

It had all gone well, he considered, as he stored items into two large saddlebags. His Musketeers had provided an excellent diversion at the Chatelet. His cadet, Dupois, had performed well, making sure he was seen by assisting the Chatelet guards in carrying out the smouldering straw before slipping quietly back to the Garrison on foot; leaving his horse behind for Elizabeth.

Even Richelieu had played his part; ensuring the ample inventive chest had been delivered; giving the opportunity for Elizabeth to hide inside, after changing into the spare uniform.

Amid the mayhem she had walked out with Treville as his cadet, right under the noses of the panicking guards.

Hearing two soft knocks on the door, she startled and half rose; but Treville held up his hand to her and smiled.

Opening the door, he stood aside as Athos strode in.

The two men greeted each other and Treville carefully closed the door.

"All is well?" he asked gruffly.

"As planned," Athos replied.

Looking swiftly around the room, his Lieutenant nodded at Elizabeth and reached into his jacket, removing Richelieu's letter. Treville relaxed, seeing Cardinal Richelieu's seal. It was addressed to the Queen Consort of England, Henrietta Maria.

"It is the letter requesting an audience with Queen Henrietta Maria in your name, as agreed," Athos addressed Treville but his explanation was for Elizabeth's benefit. "His Eminence is confident the Queen will grant you a hearing. She is keen to draw a line under this, and Mistress Cromwell ..." he gave Elizabeth a small bow, which made her blush, "is still one of her favourites."

"She does not doubt me?" Elizabeth cried, her hand to her mouth.

"The personal correspondence between the Queen and the Cardinal has been very private. Let us just say," Athos replied, addressing Elizabeth directly, "the Cardinal feels from the tone of their correspondence that she is tired of Sir Edmund Temple's attendance on her, and his loose tongue. She does not know of Sir Edmund's treachery. Once she is told of this and has evidence of it from your own mouth, Richelieu has no doubt it will be enough to condemn him."

"His blackmail of you will be proof enough of your innocence," he added by way of comfort.

Although Elizabeth _was_ comforted by Athos's words and the implications that the Queen still bore her favour, she was still unsure whether her word would be enough. She was well aware of how plausible Sir Edmund Temple could be, and she could only hope she would have the strength to both defend herself, and accuse him, when the time came. However, she had no choice, and these men had laid all on the line to get her this far. She must now gather all her strength to see this through.

"Thank you, Athos," Treville said, sincerely, and began to wrap the letter in an oilskin cloth, to be stored with their provisions.

An awkward silence hung in the air.

Treville knew Athos felt uneasy, not knowing the route he now intended to seek to the north of the country to cross the Channel to England. From here on, Treville had kept the rest of the journey and timescale to himself, impressing on his Lieutenant that he had endangered his men enough.

Realising his Captain was still being as resolute as ever, Athos sighed and clasped his hand.

"A safe journey to you both," Athos murmured.

He bowed once more to Elizabeth Cromwell, who smiled her thanks to him, before slipping quietly out of the door.

Treville gently closed and locked the door, and turned to look at the young woman dressed in one of his cadet's uniforms.

They were on their own now.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 _ **A/N**_ _: Oh ye of little faith – did you think the Musketeer's planning would have been so basic as to leave Mistress Cromwell alone in that chest? Treville would never have allowed it. Lol._

oOo

Re the use of books:

 _**In 1619, Hugo de Groot escaped from Loevestein Castle by hiding in a book chest that was regularly brought for him. The chest was taken by boat across the moat and he fled to Paris where he was well received and granted a pension by Louis XIII. The chest he escaped in, with the help of his wife and maidservant, still exists and is exhibited at the Castle. (The guards must have been looking the other way that day when he was carried out.)_

 _By the late 17_ _th_ _century, there was a rather disorganised library for the use of inmates of the Bastille, although its origins remain unclear._


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **Day Two after the Prison Break**

 **The Garrison**

The following day, the Garrison was returning to normality.

After playing his part at the Chatelet, Porthos had obviously blown off some steam, and had lost some of his misplaced aggression, settling once more into hand to hand training with those willing to take him on. So far, all remained unscathed. Aramis watched quietly from his place at their usual table, having completed his own target training with the new recruits.

The regiment had been given the same reason for Treville's absence as the Cardinal had given the King, and Athos now sat in his place in the office, working through the rostas for the following week; grateful that Treville had completed the majority of the more mundane paper work. He was by no means happy with Treville's plan, but he could not challenge his decision as he had no reason to believe they had entered the final phase of their planning with any threat over them.

However, that was all about to change.

oOo

Athos raised his head at the sound of a disturbance outside. Replacing his quill in the ink well, he rose and stretched out his back, before crossing the room to the window to look down into the yard.

A Red Guard had ridden into the Garrison.

Athos threw open the door and moved quickly down the stairs to meet the man, who had dismounted and was waiting beside his horse.

He had come to deliver a letter bearing Cardinal Richelieu's seal, addressed to Athos. Athos thanked him and took personal receipt of the letter with a curt nod, before heading back up the stairs to the office. He tapped the letter against his hand thoughtfully as he took his seat once more at Treville's desk; all thoughts of rostas now forgotten.

An ominous feeling began to seep into his stomach as he looked at the letter in his hand.

Frowning, he broke the seal and sat back, reading Richelieu's elaborate script.

For a moment, his felt his equilibrium sway.

Aramis and Porthos looked up as he came hurriedly down into the courtyard, his boots thudding on the wooden stairs. Athos met their eye and quietly inclined his head toward the stables. They both followed him unhurriedly, not wishing to draw undue attention to themselves. Once inside, Aramis barred the door behind them.

"What's goin' on?" Porthos muttered.

"I am not sure," said Athos, pacing up and down, his fingers steepled, fingertips touching his lips.

"The chest went back though?" Aramis asked, realising the Red Guard was bringing word from Richelieu.

"We saw it loaded onto the cart yesterday, as we left. It should have arrived back with the Cardinal within the hour," Athos replied, still lost in thought.

"So no-one will know its true purpose," Aramis stated, confused by Athos's demeanour.

"So, we're in the clear," Porthos said, reaching forward and grabbing Athos's arm, to still his pacing.

Athos stopped and looked from Porthos to Aramis.

"Something's wrong," Athos said quietly.

In the stillness of the stable, he removed Richelieu's letter from inside his jacket and unfolded it.

Reading it to himself once more, he looked up.

"The Cardinal's chest did not arrive, and her jailer is missing."

"What?" Porthos said.

"There is more," Athos said quietly.

"His Eminence has enclosed a letter for the Captain."

"Do you know what it says?" Aramis asked, puzzled by this new development.

"I do not," Athos replied, "but the Cardinal says it is information that has just come to his attention and he is most insistent that it be considered of high importance."

"It seems that letter is as important as the lady the Captain escorts," Aramis mused, taking the letter from Athos and scanning it.

"It would seem so," Athos said quietly. "We just have to get this new letter to him and ensure they safely cross the Channel."

"Simple," Porthos grunted.

Aramis watched as Athos re-commenced his pacing.

"You think the missing chest and the missing jailer are connected?" Aramis asked.

"I do not know, but we have to find out who this man is. Treville is unaware of this development and they could both be in danger."

"Where _is_ the Captain goin'?" Porthos asked, not privy to all of Treville's plans, for good reason. The plans they had all made did not include what would happen after the jailbreak. Porthos had assumed that Treville would have taken Athos into his confidence, and that was fine. They all accepted that sometimes, their missions operated on a "need to know" basis, and this mission had to be very secretive.

Athos decided that he would take them both into his and Treville's confidence, as something had definitely gone wrong, and he now feared for his Captain's life, and that of Elizabeth Cromwell.

"As you know, he seeks a ship, to take Mistress Cromwell back to give testimony against Sir Edmund," he replied.

"How will he get an audience with the English King?" Aramis asked.

"Yesterday, when I went to the Louvre, I took possession of a direct request from The Cardinal to Henrietta Maria for a hearing. She will not deny Richelieu. He has been engaged in frustrated negotiations with the English Royal Household. The letter will bring an end to it. I then met with the Captain and gave him the letter. They are both well, by the way," he added with a small smile.

"Where is this ship sailin' from?" asked Porthos persisted.

"That has to be decided," said Athos quietly.

"What?" Aramis asked.

Athos sighed.

"It is not planned. He intends this within the week, so we have a few days grace. Also, of course, it depends on the tides and the available ships."

"That's not a plan." Porthos said.

"Treville believes the fewer of us know, the better,"

"Normally, I would agree," Aramis said, "but it is too much of a coincidence that Mistress Cromwell's jailer is missing, and the chest has not been returned to the Louvre. If that person thought the chest was her means of escape, they will know by now that it was not."

Athos grunted in acknowledgement.

"If that person has not connected the chest to her, it is still odd that he has left his employment," he said.

"Unless someone's been payin' him," Porthos added. "And he's fallen foul of us."

Athos straightened, and looked at them.

"If that is the case, he has also fallen foul of whoever is paying him. He may be a desperate man."

Athos made a decision.

"Aramis," he said quickly, "find out what you can about the missing jailer. Where he is from, where he drinks, how long he has worked at the prison, what his circumstance are; whether anyone thought he could be corrupted," he trailed off, and waved his hand. Aramis knew what to ask.

"Porthos, go back to the Chatelet and speak to the Governor. See if anyone has been taking any unusual interest in our prisoner."

"We need to know who this jailer is and if he was working for anyone. We have some days before Treville plans to cross to England."

oOo

It did not take them long. Although the Governor was not pleased to see a Musketeer again so soon, he was still waiting for retribution from the Louvre and so was more than willing to be co-operative. He had taken some solace that Gaspar Recule may have been involved, as that at least offered some explanation.

However, on his return to the Garrison, Porthos had little to report. "His name is Gaspar Recule. Leclerc hired him a year ago. He's kept his nose clean."

Aramis had little to add. He had met up with Porthos to compare notes before returning to the Garrison. "He lives in the vicinity, uses the same tavern as most of the guards do, "The Blue Boar," but doesn't appear to drink much. Always reports for duty on time, and hasn't been in any trouble."

"In other words," Athos said, "For a Chatelet guard, he's too good to be true."

oOo

That evening, the three Musketeers sat in the said The Blue Boar tavern, where the guards of the Chatelet usually drank. In the shadow of the Chatelet, it was a dismal place, but was the only tavern in the immediate area. It stood between a slaughterhouse and the city morgue, the lowly clientele reflected in the pervading atmosphere the three Musketeers experienced as they walked to the back of the room and sat at a table in the corner.

As the evening wore on, amid the noise and stink of the men and yells of the barmaids and the landlord, it became apparent to anyone close by that one of the Musketeers was very drunk and unable to keep from moaning.

"What business is it of ours if this English woman has escaped?! We serve the King!" he slurred.

"Quiet Porthos!" Aramis hissed.

Porthos glared at him.

"S'not our business; we serve France," he persisted. "What do we care for England?!"

"It is _Musketeer_ business, it is our duty to investigate," Athos replied firmly, fixing him with a look.

Aramis went to lay a calming hand on Porthos's shoulder and the big man suddenly exploded, pushing him back against the wall. Athos went to part them and got pushed away himself, finding himself inelegantly sprawled across a table.

"That's enough!" he shouted, standing and straightening his jacket. "Out, now!"

They pushed the big one outside. He was still spoiling for a fight, and it took their combined strength to manhandle him through the door.

Outside, breathing hard, Aramis looked at Athos.

"Do you think they bought it?"

"I think it was an outstanding performance," Athos murmured with a quirk of his lip; "a little over zealous perhaps," he added, looking at Porthos, "but no matter."

"Now we wait."

oOo

They had been observed, as was the intention.

Later, someone slipped out of the tavern and made his way to a small house west of the Chatelet, its windows tightly shuttered.

Basile Verdier was Gaspar Recule's brother-in-law.

He had heard every word.

Recule poured wine as Verdier recounted what he had seen in the Blue Boar.

"They are Musketeers, Gaspar! You did not tell me this."

"I wasn't sure," Gaspar replied. "Their Captain paid a lot of attention to her. He's got somethin' to do with this," he added, swallowing his wine.

"Go to the Garrison in the morning, Basile. Ask for Captain Treville."

"For what purpose?" Verdier asked.

"Because, it's my guess he isn't there."

"And if he isn't?"

"Then we need more men."

 **To be continued ...**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Gaspar Recule did not know the man who had employed him. He had been working at the Chatelet for over a year when the offer came. He was to watch a new prisoner, a female, who would be placed in the Chatelet for an unknown time. The man who met him with this proposition was to be a go between. He was to meet with this man every fortnight and report on the prisoner. That man would then relay his report to the man in England.

Recule would receive a retaining fee whilst she was incarcerated. Should it appear that she was to be released, he was to find a way to dispose of her. If he failed in that, he would be exposed. Recule had thought the proposition through and had then agreed, as the final payment he would receive should that happen was too good to miss. He would not soil his own hands, but he had no scruples and for the right price, he could find someone who would do the deed. The go between had named the right price.

However, now it seemed, he had been thwarted. She was gone, as was his income on both counts; his retaining fee, and his employment. He had not had the opportunity to dispose of her, but there were still means by which he could capitalise on her disappearance. Over the six weeks of her imprisonment, he had become very interested in this strange arrangement. He knew that she had not been convicted, and it seemed, her presence in the Chatelet was to be kept secret. Something of great importance was happening under his nose.

At first, he had been mildly curious about the new prisoner, but it had soon become apparent that, although she looked a lowly sort, she did not carry herself as such and she had powerful friends. Or perhaps, powerful enemies. They were told by the Governor that she was to be guarded with the minimum of interaction.

In light of her disappearance, he had considered his options.

Gaspar Recule was used to organising people. He was used to giving orders. He could be violent when provoked. Before his year in the Chatelet, he had been the landlord of one of the toughest taverns on the dockside. A former dockhand, handling drunken sailors and low-lifes of any nationality became the norm and people soon behaved themselves in his establishment.

As such, he could call upon any number of eager ne'er do wells who needed extra coin in their pockets with no questions asked.

This was precisely what he had done, and he was now looking them over critically.

But sometimes, they did ask questions.

"So what's the story?" one of the four men he had brought here asked as soon as they had all sat down in the back room of the hostelry Gaspar had chosen for this meeting. They were the only ones in the room; three men crowded around a table, one choosing to stand at the back of the room, Basile Verdier standing by the window, watching, and Recule himself by the fireplace.

"It's simple," Gaspar answered, "A prisoner has escaped; I want her back."

"Bit careless," another said, and they all laughed. Gaspar let it go, this time.

"Who is she?" another said.

"I have no idea," he replied, "she is a mystery and that's why she is worth somethin'" Gaspar said, in a low voice. "We were told to steer clear of her. She's got powerful enemies."

"So why take the risk?" the first man said harshly, spitting on the floor.

"For that very reason. She is worth something to these people. They'll pay to get her back."

"We find _her_ and we find them that'll pay," he finished, moving to sit at the table.

The men all looked interested at the prospect of a good payout.

"How are we supposed to find her?" the man at the back shouted.

Recule told them about the Musketeer Captain.

"Treville's not at the Garrison. It's my guess he's got the Englishwoman with him. Where do you take an Englishwoman who's not welcome in France?"

"England," several voices said at once.

Someone cackled.

"We split up," Gaspar said. "Some of us go ahead after Treville and the girl. The others wait and follow the Musketeers. They've been snooping around; Basile here saw them at the Blue Boar. So we've been watching the Garrison; those three that usually trail after Treville are gettin' ready to go. With any luck, they'll take us right to him."

After further discussion, it was decided; two would go ahead to Dieppe, two to Calais and Gaspar and Verdier would head to Boulogne sur Mer.

Traps were to be set, and so Recule despatched his gang, and added a day and time to rendezvous on the coast road and regroup if necessary.

oOo

 **The Garrison**

 **Day Three: Preparing to leave**

Preparations were underway to find Treville and Elizabeth.

Aramis was busy packing what he needed. Porthos watched him tying spare leathers to the back of his saddle.

"Sure you've got enough?" he asked, pushing his own provisions into his saddle bags. For a big man, he travelled light.

"I like to be prepared," Aramis smiled. "You never know, my friend," he added quietly.

Athos strode toward them, pulling his hat low over his eyes.

"So where _is_ Treville headin'?" Porthos pushed Athos once more. He wanted more information now.

"As I have told you, Porthos, he would not say," Athos repeated. "He has sworn himself to secrecy, for all our sakes."

"Makes sense," Aramis said.

"What we have done; what we _are_ doing is tantamount to treason, Gentlemen" Athos said, darkly.

Porthos looked at him; still not satisfied.

"He did let one thing slip." Athos said, feeling Porthos's steady gaze on him and deciding to tell them. "He will not land in Dover."

"Why not?"Aramis asked, briefly stopping what he was doing and casting a look over his shoulder.

"It is too well known as the main port from France. " Athos replied. "Also, Treville is a Frenchman, who is not proficient in English, in the company of a young English woman. He will have to rely on her to communicate with others once they reach English soil."

"They would draw too much attention," Porthos nodded, understanding.

"And Elizabeth is very attractive," Aramis mused.

He looked up from finalising the tying of his kit and securing it to his satisfaction and found them looking steadily at him.

"What?" he said, innocently.

oOo

They left the stables and moved to the table under Treville's balcony to make final plans.

Athos opened up a map and spread it on the table.

"We will need to split up," Athos said as they all sat together, talking quietly. "In all probability, we will have company," he added.

"So with Calais not an option, it is a choice of Bolougne-sur-Mer or Dieppe," Aramis said, as he weighed Athos's words.

Athos traced his finger between the two.

"Paris to Bolougne is some forty five leagues," he murmured. "Paris to Dieppe, somewhat shorter; I'd say around thirty five."

"Bolougne and Dieppe are both close to each other," Porthos replied, leaning over. "I reckon about twenty five leagues.

"I'll take Dieppe," Aramis said.

"I'm not happy to send you alone," Athos said. "If our work in the Blue Boar bears fruit, Gaspar Recule may follow us."

"We are three, Athos, covering two ports. Whichever way we do this, one of us will ride alone.

"Very well," Athos eventually capitulated, to a point. "We will ride together until we reach the crossroad on the coast road and then decide. If there are no sailings from Dieppe, Aramis, you will leave and rendezvous with us in Boulogne. In all probability, we will arrive ahead of you and will set watch at the Harbourmasters. When Treville and Elizabeth arrive, we will see them."

"If they arrive," Porthos said, voicing what they were all thinking. This was a thin plan at best, with no guarantee that they would not miss Treville entirely. But their options were limited in light of the new revelations that Richelieu's letter had brought.

"Perhaps we should pray for bad weather," Aramis said, as they all stood.

A short while later, the Musketeers set off on the trail of their Captain.

oOo

Treville did not know that he and Elizabeth were being trailed by the thwarted jailer and his accomplices; all of whom had orders to capture or kill Elizabeth Cromwell, and her own accomplices.

He was also unaware that his Musketeers were desperate to locate him, wanting to prevent it and bring him important information.

Treville did not ride direct to the coast. He wanted to lie low for a few days, to allow things to calm down.

But Treville was a trained soldier. He would, through experience and natural caution, make it difficult for _both_ parties to reach them.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

 **A/N** : I have taken liberties with the number of French ports offering passage to England. I wanted to simplify matters and concentrate on just three of them.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

With two days start, Treville and Elizabeth were making their way north. Treville was keeping an eye on the ominous dark clouds that were gathering. They would have to seek shelter soon. If storms hit, it would cause disruption at the ports and would delay crossings to England. Unaware they were being persued, he was erring on the side of caution, aware of his responsibilities to keep Elizabeth safe but also to France, to bring a traitor to justice.

So, as the first rains came, he moved them off the track and into woodland.

Tethering their horses beneath a heavy oak branch, they sought shelter in a woodcutter's hut. It was small but watertight, and they were glad to shake off their cloaks and take some sustenance. There was a small table and a stool, and the hut itself smelt pleasantly of the elm with which it was constructed.

Treville had brought provisions for a few days, and they sat quietly and were glad to eat the dried meat and cheese; she perched on the stool and he on the floor, resting back against the wall of the hut.

"You must be used to different fare to this," Treville said, thinking of this young woman in her rightful place in an English palace.

"Not lately," she replied with a sad smile.

"The King pays the Governor to provide provisions for the Chatelet prisoners," Treville said. "Traders make a good commission; I have often wondered if enough was left to buy food."

"It was plain, but it did sustain," she replied.

She looked at him as he nodded, satisfied apparently with her reply. Anything less would have him petitioning the King, she thought to herself.

"Why are you helping me, Captain?" she asked quietly, brushing crumbs from her uniform leather breeches.

"Because I made a promise," he replied, without hesitation.

"I lost six of my best men by that man's hand."

Treville could not bear to say Sir Edmund Temple's name.

"But how can I help? I am powerless. I am but one voice."

"You heard Athos. Do you not realise the power you have in your hands?" Treville replied, incredulously.

She raised her eyes to him, searching his face.

"What power do I have, Captain?!" she scoffed. "It will be my word against his." She was worn down, exhausted and sad.

"I think you can call me Jean," he replied, smiling softly.

He grew serious then.

"We have our lives in each other's hands," he finished.

They sat a while longer, listening to the rain bouncing off the roof of the hut; unaware of the danger that was a little way behind them.

oOo

Leaving the woodland, they rode steadily on. The rain had eased, and the sun briefly made an appearance, although there were grey clouds on the horizon, threatening more disruptive weather.

Elizabeth was relaxing a little now, after the trauma of the last few days. She was beginning to look ahead and believe in the possibility that she may return to England, with this man's help, to clear her name. She still dared not think that she had the power to bring Sir Edmund down. She doubted he would allow it and she doubted she had the nerve to face him once more.

Treville prompted her to speak of England, and he smiled as she began to relate details of her time in the Royal Court. It sounded very similar to his own experience of the comings and goings of the royal meeting chambers at the Louvre. Elizabeth did not gossip but wove an entertaining picture of the visitors and dignitaries who paraded around this most opulent of royal courts. Her descriptions of the court itself were vivid; painting a picture in his mind.

It was no secret that Charles I prided himself on emulating the Spanish style of court that he had so admired when he spent time there, in the hopes of taking a Spanish queen. Instead, he had brought a Catholic French queen to England. Henrietta Maria had become a steadfast patron of the arts, but she was extravagant and theirs were the most sumptuous of royal residences. She was also a staunch supporter of the Catholic cause. This had made her unpopular with her adopted people and with some in her own court; and there lay the dichotomy, and the current threats. He was suddenly aware of Richelieu's letter of authority he carried, and hoped that it would be enough to gain him an audience with this headstrong daughter of Marie de Medici.

It seemed, he thought, as he listened to her gentle tales, that they were both harbouring hopes and doubts, but he was pleased to see this side to her, and was not averse to sharing a few tales of his own of the French court.

Later, they came upon a large barn, off the main track. It was in good repair, but secure. They would need to do some damage to gain access. Treville was keen to find a place to pass the night and this barn offered shelter against any rain that may come during the night.

An abandoned farmhouse stood at the other side of the field, once no doubt the home of the farmer who had owned the barn. The farmhouse itself was dilapidated. The roof was gone; only the four white washed walls remained.

Seeing a group of hens pecking around the ground of the abandoned farmhouse at the other side of the field, Treville had gone in search of fresh food to supplement their dry provisions; leaving Elizabeth within the walls of the barn, resting on one of the stair treads leading up into the loft space.

It had been a while since he had rung a hen's neck, but hunger was beginning to bite and the prospect of roast chicken was too good to pass up. The hens were not laying, but they looked in good condition and he was about to ensnare one. Looking up, he saw that they had a sheltered perch half way up one of the walls. This was no doubt how they had survived predators; his attention was taken up completely, when a movement behind him caught him unawares. Before he could draw his sword, he felt a sharp pain across his lower back, and the world tilted.

Turning, he came face to face with a masked man.

He had never seen this man before. He wondered briefly if he was merely protecting his chickens, until he saw the thin blade held in one hand, and the sword in the other. He drew his own sword and roared at the man. He took a step back, but then, Treville saw that beneath the scarf, the man was grinning.

Then the air was rent with the sound of squawking hens and clashing steel.

oOo

 **TWO DAYS LATER: The same barn**

The building loomed out of the twilight in front of them. It was an abandoned barn, although it still looked structurally sound. Needing to find somewhere to spend the night, Athos, Porthos and Aramis dismounted and walked their horses around to a lean-to, attached to the barn. They would need to inspect the barn before making a decision on whether to stay, but their options were limited. There was no reason why the horses could not then join them at one end of the barn, should they decide to stay.

Across the field, they saw the farmhouse, but it was in a sorry state, and so they turned their attention to the barn.

The large main doors were barred, so they split up and walked the perimeter of the building to find another way in. There was a door to the side, which Porthos reached first. It was loosely secured; one of the hinges damaged from a previous encounter, judging by the splintered wood around it; and so he had put his shoulder to it. By the time the others walked around the side of the building to join him, he had the door open. By this time, they had lost most of the light.

Stepping inside, it was difficult to see, although a shaft of light from a loose roof slate lit up what looked like a substantial ladder which led to a loft space, comprising a half floor above. A waist-high rail stretched along the edge of the floor across the barn's width. That would be a safer place to sleep than on the floor of the barn, and would afford them an advantage, should their night be interrupted by intruders. Porthos and Athos took to the ladder, and prepared to shift the hay on the floor above into a comfortable resting place, while Aramis headed off in search of a source of light, picking his way amongst discarded crates and sacks.

Stepping off the ladder onto the floor above, there was enough dim light to make out the mound of hay that had been left, covered with a tarpaulin which had protected it from any rain that had fallen through the broken roof slate. Porthos pulled the tarpaulin aside and Athos began gathering up armfuls of hay and shifting it away from the offending slate above him.

All the time, they kept up a blind running conversation with Aramis below, who had found an old oil lamp. Shaking it, it appeared to have some oil in its base, and he shouted that he was going outside to retrieve his flints from his saddlebags.

Just as the door banged shut, Athos stepped back; his leg coming into contact with the railing.

There was a loud crack as it gave way and he started to over balance.

There was absolutely nothing to grab on to.

 **To be continued ...**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N** Many thanks for reading and reviewing, as always.

 **CHAPTER TEN**

At Athos's sudden yell of surprise, Porthos grabbed the heavy post that held the remainder of the railing to the roof, and threw his arm out.

Athos caught his hand just as his feet slipped off the floor and into space.

Porthos grunted and braced himself with his body against the post and tightened his grip of Athos's hand, as his brother spun slowly over the black chasm below.

"You hold tight, now," Porthos hissed through gritted teeth.

"That's my line," Athos grunted as he swung dangerously to and fro.

Aramis was still outside, unaware of the drama unfolding and with no idea what was below them on the floor of the barn, Porthos growled and braced his foot against the post he was now leaning heavily into.

"Undo your weapon belt, it's weighing you down!" he grunted as Athos became very still, aware of the weight Porthos was holding.

"If I do that, and I fall, I may skewer myself on my own sword!" Athos said, through gritted teeth, painfully aware of his shoulder joint being slowly wrenched.

"You ain't gonna fall!" Porthos all but shouted. His pride was at stake here.

But Porthos had no leverage and could not pull him up, as his body was braced against the post with an arm on either side. To move one in order to grasp Athos's hand in both of his, he would lose his balance and they would both go over. The post was the only thing keeping Porthos upright but was digging painfully into his chest.

Athos looked down into pitch black. He had a rough idea of how high they were, but no idea of what lay on the floor beneath them. It could be bare wood, or machinery of some sort. The light from the loose tile above no longer gave any illumination; the moon having disappeared behind dark cloud.

Porthos growled, and tried to tighten his grip.

They both became aware at the same moment that Athos's hand was slowly slipping from his glove.

" _Porthos_ ..."

"I know," Porthos said quietly. "You would be wearin' gloves, wouldn't ya?!" he said, attempting to make light of an increasingly desperate situation.

Before Athos could think of a suitable cutting reply, he felt his fingers slip from his glove, leaving Porthos holding onto the tips of his gloves.

With one last look between them, and hoping he would not land on his own sword, Athos's fingers slipped from his glove, and he fell.

For a moment, he became weightless, the only sound, Porthos's roar which echoed through the barn.

Bracing himself was probably not the wisest thing to do, but it wasn't the painful landing he expected. However, the air left his lungs as his back hit something hard but which gave slightly, at the same time serving to break his fall. His diaphragm spasmed painfully at the same time and for a moment, he could not breathe.

The barn was flooded with light then, as Aramis came forward at some speed, holding the lamp aloft.

Oblivious to what had just happened, but having heard Porthos's yell, he looked at Athos, lying now on what appeared to be a mound of old hay, struggling for breath; his eyes watering.

Looking up, he realised what had happened and quickly put the lamp down, and crossed the floor to straighten Athos's legs and pull him into a better position.

Slowly, Athos managed to drag in his first breath, as Aramis grounded him with a firm hand on his chest. He nodded up at Porthos, who sat down heavily in relief that he had not killed his brother.

"Anything hurt?" Aramis asked, innocently.

"Only my pride," Athos gasped, after a few worrying moments.

"Don't burn the place down until mornin'" Porthos shouted at Aramis from above. "I don't fancy sleeping outdoors tonight."

Aramis duly collected the lamp and placed it safely out of the way of the hay.

In the loft, Porthos sat quietly for a while. In his palm lay Aubin's small carved horseshoe he had pulled from his pocket.

"Luck of the Devil," he murmured, shaking his head.

"Who are you talking to, my friend?" Aramis called, looking up toward the loft.

Porthos straightened and walked to the edge of the floor, looking down at them both.

"No-one," he said, starting down the steps.

Athos lay still for a while, catching his breath, before shifting position to push himself up. His hand fell upon something, and he scooped it up.

It was a leather ammunition pouch. Opening it up by the drawstring, Athos tipped a dozen musket balls into his hand.

"It is Treville's" he murmured, recognising the distinctive design embossed in the black leather.

"Look at this," Porthos called, coming down the steps to join them, pausing on the last step, his hand stopping on the railing.

Aramis stepped across and looked at the stain on the wood.

"Blood," he said quietly.

"One, or both of them, is hurt," Aramis said.

"This is not just a matter of delivering Richelieu's letter," Athos replied, "It's about keeping them alive."

oOo

Two days prior, Elizabeth had levelled the pistol at the door. Treville had pressed it on her when he had left to trudge across the field to the abandoned farmhouse. She heard uneven footsteps approaching and readied herself. The barn door suddenly opened and Treville almost fell through the doors.

Laying the pistol carefully aside, she took his weight as he steadied himself. They both moved off toward the mound of hay under the loft and Elizabeth helped him off with his weapon belt and laid it all on the straw at their feet.

"What happened?" she gasped, looking around, fearful of being attacked.

"It's alright, he is dead," Treville grunted.

"Who? Who is dead?!"

"I have no idea," he gritted his teeth and pulled himself toward a post, leaning his shoulder against it, before sinking down.

"Perhaps we should have left Paris sooner; this man had time to catch us up."

He handed her the thin blade he had taken from the man who had attacked him.

"Take this; it may serve you well," he murmured, adding "Please, don't argue," when he saw the look she gave him.

She slipped it inside her jacket.

"Are you sure he was not a highway robber?" she asked, helping him off with his jacket, laying it next to his weapon belt.

"He was too pleased to see me to be a mere robber," Treville replied, through still gritted teeth. "But he was on his own; I saw no-one else."

"I am sorry," he said then, looking up as she stood over him.

She looked surprised.

"For what?"

"For not bringing you a chicken," he smiled.

She started to laugh, and it was a wonderful sound. He slumped to his side, propping himself on his elbow, and watched her as she composed herself.

For the next half hour, Elizabeth was a flurry of activity. She fetched the water skin, and tore the hem of her cadet shirt. Soaking it, she cleaned the wound as best she could. The cut was a slice some eight inches long, quite deep at one end. It cut across his lower back and would need stitches, but they had no medical equipment. They would need to seek help.

Through it all, he was still, accepting her help, even though he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles were white. She finished by pressing a wad of material against the wound and tying a strip of material around his midsection to hold it in place. Afterwards, he thanked her gruffly, and looked around.

There was a loft above them, but he did not want to use his remaining energy by climbing the ladder. He obviously abhorred their present situation, and squaring his shoulders, he commenced drawing some straw aside to add to the mound they had been resting on, occasionally holding on to the railing to steady himself.

She knew better than to try and stop him.

Something had bred loyalty and honour in this man, she thought, as she sat watching him move tentatively to their saddle bags and pull out his cloak, setting it down upon the straw. There was steel forged in the heart of him that spoke of something long broken and she was sorry for it.

For his part, he had never spoken of it; the day he turned his heart to stone. Perhaps he never would. Perhaps he was afraid of the cracks that were appearing against his will, brought on by a motley crew of equally damaged men, like himself, who he was proud to call _his_ men; _his_ brothers. And a young woman, who had added to the fissures of late.

He would have to shore it up again, or he was lost.

He insisted she sleep, while he kept watch.

At first light, Elizabeth checked his wound. The sight of it made her catch her breath, but she did not allow a sound to escape her. She merely washed it once more and folded a fresh piece of linen to press over the cut, securing it with a strip now torn from Treville's shirt.

She refused to move on until he had slept a little, promising she would stand watch now. Seeing how she had wielded the pistol she now held in her hand, he agreed.

Later:

Treville's wound slowed them down, each fall of his horses's hooves a painful reminder. It was not a mortal wound, but it would soon need stitching, if he was to avoid infection. Heading north-east now, there were a few more buildings scattered along the roadway. They passed a few traders on the way, before seeing what appeared to be a small chapel ahead of them at the side of the road. No doubt, further on, there would be a village to which it was affiliated, but he did not wish to enter a village and so they stopped.

It looked deserted, although its roof looked sound. Alighting painfully from his horse, Treville led Elizabeth to the door, taking hold of the large iron ring and turning it. The heavy wooden door slowly creaked open on noisy hinges, announcing their arrival.

Inside, an old priest was wielding a broom with a strength he did not look capable of.

Seeing them silhouetted in the doorway, he stopped; the dust settling around him.

"I am Father Pascal," he called in a strong voice which belayed his obvious age.

Treville and Elizabeth pushed inside and looked around at the small inner sanctum.

"As you can see," the priest continued, "My congregation has somewhat diminished." He waved his hand towards the back of the room, where two equally old women sat, eyeing them warily.

"Father," Treville said, "I am in need of a needle and thread."

The old priest had put aside his broom and now looked at them steadily.

Treville collapsed heavily onto the nearest pew and the two old women fled.

As Elizabeth tried to hold him upright her hat slipped from her head and her long blonde hair unfurled around her shoulders.

"Oh," the old man said, but his rheumy eyes twinkled. "Here is a tale I shall be interested to hear!"

 **To be continued ...**


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Father Pascal showed them through to a small room at the back of the Chapel. Shuffling to the boarded window at the end of the room, he pulled at the old shutters, allowing a dim light to creep into the room through dusty windows. He then busied himself lighting candles to add to the one that stood burning on the wooden table in the centre of the room. Although it was only midday, the room itself was dark.

"We have more candles than windows," he chuckled, waving for them to sit at the table.

Elizabeth remained standing, ready to help the old priest, should he need it.

Rummaging around in a cupboard, Father Pascal joined them and passed a sewing box across the table.

"Even old priests have the need of a darning needle sometimes," he said, smiling.

He turned to a wooden cabinet behind him and withdrew a bottle of wine and three pewter cups, his old fingers stretching around the rims as he held the three in one hand; his knuckles cracking at the unexpected strain.

"I have little use for the sacramental wine these days."

Catching Treville's eye, he smiled;

"Do not worry, this one has not been blessed yet. Most of my flock have flown."

"I am sorry for that," Treville offered, allowing a groan to escape as he shifting position.

No doubt this man had been a good, kindly priest to those who sought him out.

"No matter," Father Pascal replied in a matter-of-fact way, before looking up and pointing to the ceiling with a tremulous finger;

" _He_ knows where they are; and He and I still talk every day."

Elizabeth smiled, but seeing the Priest's shaking hands, it had dawned on her that, if there was sewing to be done, it would probably be she who would be doing it.

Hopefully, Treville would not be in need of the fancy embroidery stitches that had been drummed into her by her mother since she was a young child. But she cast her mind back to those times and sent a small prayer for her fingers to be as nimble and quick in their next task as they were then.

Treville met her eye as she sat down opposite him to open the box.

"If there are needles in there," he said, "choose a robust one and drop it into boiling water before you use it."

She raised her eyebrows at him, wondering whether he was delirious. But he gave her a serious look.

"I would never hear the last of it if I did not comply with that particular teaching. Aramis is most insistent on it."

"Aramis...?" she said, frowning slightly.

He smiled. She had met Aramis briefly at the Royal Lodge in the Forest, but they all soon became otherwise engaged in their battle for survival against two sets of assassins.

"The one who tends his beard like a Royal Gardener," Treville said, a smile spreading across his face, despite his discomfort.

"Ah," she laughed.

Father Pascal came back and refilled Treville's cup. The wine really was good. Elizabeth refused his offer but Treville picked up the bottle and poured her a small amount and passed it to her.

"Drink, it will fortify you," he said, firmly. It was no easy task to stitch skin.

As she took it, she laid her hand on his, and nodded.

They were becoming a strange partnership indeed.

She watched as the old priest put some water on to boil on the fire.

oOo

All in all, she made a good job of it. Her stitches were neat and she had been both swift and gentle. Her patient had been still, which had helped in her task.

He had stood up immediately afterwards, pulling his shirt back down from his shoulders. A soldier once more; wanting to get on with it.

It was Father Pascal who stilled him, with a hand gently placed on his shoulder.

"There are rooms here, stay and rest. The old women will not say anything; we have taken in many waifs and strays over the years; we make no judgement."

Treville nodded; suddenly very weary.

Later, after Father Pascal had retired for the night, they sat together in the candlelight.

"You are close to your men," Elizabeth said, picking at the bread and cheese Father Pascal had left for them before he took to his bed.

Treville seemed lost in thought, staring into the fire.

When she saw this closed man was not about to speak, she gently prompted him.

"Tell me about Athos. I saw little of him at the Hunting Lodge."

Treville smiled then.

"Athos is a great support to me," he said quietly. "He has a fine mind for negotiation, and I will always trust him to do the honourable thing. He will be Captain one day, though I doubt he would thank me for it."

"He fully supports you in this venture?" she asked him.

She had seen how Athos had hesitated at Treville's house when he had brought them the Cardinal's letter of authority. He had not been willing to leave them, she thought, but had obeyed his Captain.

"Perhaps not _fully_ ," Treville replied, his eyes crinkling in a gentle smile as he thought of his Lieutenant's initial reaction in the Armoury:

" _You are speechless ..."_

" _And you are insane ...with respect."_

That seemed now, a long time ago.

"He and I spoke about this injustice after I returned from escorting you to The Chatelet," Treville continued. "But, in this; a lot is down to his planning. So, yes; he does support me."

He picked up the poker and shifted some of the coals around, bringing flames once more to the glowing embers.

"Athos is the finest swordsman I have ever known. I would always have him at my side," he added.

Elizabeth poured wine into his cup and pushed it toward him.

"And Porthos? " she asked; fascinated now by his candour and wanting to hear more. "He brought me food at the Hunting Lodge. He was very kind."

Treville looked a little sad then and pursed his lips, gathering his thoughts.

"Porthos is grieving for Aubin Fabron. It was a cruel twist of fate that that young man died. Apparently, my men all thought he was Musketeer material."

"It was very sad, and so unnecessary," she whispered.

He had never heard her speak ill of Sir Edmund Temple, despite what he had done to her. This was the closest to recrimination that he had heard.

"Porthos is angry," Treville said; "but he will settle. He is spirited; he is always in the front line. And he is fearless; he relishes a challenge. Sometimes, his deeper feelings get the better of him. He is fiercely loyal and, occasionally," he laughed, "he is very wise. He and Aramis have a similar attitude to life."

"Aramis," she said. "He of the well-tended beard," she smiled.

Treville laughed.

She was holding his gaze; wanting more.

"Aramis," he sighed. "What can I tell you of Aramis?"

"He is impatient; he wants answers quickly. He is playful, but he has a good heart. His love of women is well-known; he likes to think of himself as a romantic hero but he does care for them. But he is a fierce soldier," he added thoughtfully, nodding to himself. "He fought bravely and was wounded in the Siege of Montauban and Ile de Re in 1621 and 22. He is the best shot in the regiment."

"You love your men," she said, simply.

"As brothers," he said. "But they will be the death of me," he laughed quietly.

She was still for a moment, before leaning forward; her elbows on the table now, resting her chin on her folded hands.

"And what of you? Jean," she murmured; using his name for the first time.

"What of me?" he said, puzzled.

He had not thought she would be interested in adding _his_ character to her understanding.

"You are a loyal servant of France; a man of honour," she replied, gathering her courage under his steady gaze. "You are guarded, but brave. Responsibility sits heavily on you because you _must_ uphold it. You have the hard exterior of a soldier who does not show weakness," she said. "And yet, you love your men with all your heart."

He huffed, his blue eyes peering at her.

"And they love you and would follow you wherever you lead them," she finished.

"And what of you, Elizabeth," he said quietly, turning her own question on her.

"Me?" she asked, surprised.

"I am equally able to make an assessment," he said, amused at her startled expression.

"You are resourceful. Brave. Willing to try," he began. "Accepting, without judgement. You have borne your recent trials well. Your family should be proud of you."

They fell into a comfortable silence then; their discussion serving to give them succour and strengthen their resolve.

They spent a restful night, all in all.

Two days behind them in the barn they had vacated, Athos was attempting to catch his breath on a pile of hay that Treville himself had painstakingly gathered; but Treville knew nothing of that.

This night, he had lain in a soft bed listening to the sounds of the old chapel building creaking around him, before succumbing to sleep. For Elizabeth, apart from her stay in the Chatelet and her night at Treville's house, it was wonderful to have her own room once more. This one was surprisingly pleasant, with whitewashed walls and a nice quilted counterpane on the bed.

Later, as they made ready to leave, Elizabeth reached inside her cadet jacket and removed a small book, placing it in the old Priest's hands.

He looked down and turned it over. It was an exquisite Bible. When he opened the pages, he saw that it was beautifully illustrated. He was completely lost for words for a moment, before he looked up at her with shining eyes.

"This is a treasure!" he exclaimed, making to push it back into her hands. "It is too much!"

She resisted, and finally, his old hands wrapped reverently around it.

"Do not say anything," she whispered, "it is Cardinal Richelieu's own."

His eyes widened and he looked about to decline once more; the name striking fear even in his old bones. However, she placed both her soft hands on his and shook her head.

"It is alright. He sent it to me." It was not a lie, she thought.

And so, she left this small book, but the help she was receiving was beginning to overwhelm her and she had nothing more to give this gentle man who had taken them both in, cold and bedraggled and bleeding, and had quietly helped them.

"Then, thank you my dear," he whispered, nodding quietly, but unable to meet her eyes again.

There was food on the table in the back room when they gathered their meagre belongings together.

"I told you they would not betray you," Father Pascal said, silently thanking the two old women, his stalwarts in these difficult times.

As they took up their provisions and packed them into their saddlebags, Elizabeth briefly wondered if it was in their rooms that she and Treville had slept in.

"God speed," the old man said, as Treville shook his hand, and Elizabeth gave him a quick smile and a practised curtsey. She had thought to place a kiss on his cheek, but did not know how it would be received; so overwhelmed had he been at her gift.

"Thank you, Father," Treville said. "You do not know the extent of your assistance."

"I know this is something important," Father Pascal replied, meeting his eye. "You are a French man of military bearing and you escort a young English woman. I wish you both well. Be careful, sir."

Treville nodded and then they moved their horses quietly back onto the road.

Elizabeth turned in her saddle and the old man raised his hand, before disappearing back into his own gentle world.

"Let us hope Richelieu does not miss his Bible," Treville said, as they rode off.

Elizabeth caught her breath. She had not known he had seen her part with the book.

Treville's smiles were scarce and his demeanour could sometimes scare her; but she swore she heard him laughing softly as he rode ahead.

 **To be continued ...**


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

The old priest had given them a salve made with lavender; a natural antiseptic. They had stopped on the banks of a river to replenish their water and Elizabeth took the opportunity to ask to see her handiwork.

Treville lifted his shirt and she carefully applied the salve around the stitches. She had seen his back when she had put her stitches into the long slice across his skin. The scar it left would not be the only one to mar his back.

"What makes a man become a soldier?" she sighed.

He realised what had prompted her question. His back held many scars. The women who occasionally saw his back were not the sort to be concerned, having scars themselves; if not physically, then emotionally. They cared little about how a man like him came about them.

Suddenly self-conscious in her gentle company, he shifted and hastily pulled down his shirt.

"I am sorry!" she cried. "That was rude of me. I seem to have left my manners in that dreadful place.

He reached out and took her hand.

"Whatever happens, you will not go back," he said.

She stood, breaking the spell, and brushed her hands down the leather breeches.

His lip quirked, "Do you miss your trappings?" he asked.

It was her turn to smile.

"I am getting used to these," she replied, slapping her hand against the leather of the cadet breeches, "much easier to move about in!"

They fell into companiable silence then as they sat a little longer.

oOo

After an eventful night, Porthos, Athos and Aramis were happy to secure the barn and move on. Now they were making their way toward the crossroad that would turn them either to Boulogne or Dieppe.

The roadway was worn and indistinct in places, no doubt due in some part to the recent storms. From the map, they had seen that both coast roads went in roughly the same direction before forking; one longer than the other. So it would be here that a decision would have to be made and they would split up.

Porthos had been lost in thought since they had left the barn. Riding slightly behind, he took out the small carved horseshoe once more and looked at it curiously. He could still feel Aubin's mother's fingers as she closed his hand around the treasure the boy had given him. She had been adamant it would bring him luck, she had said.

Porthos had wondered how much luck it had brought her now-dead son, as he turned the small token over and over in his hand, before slipping it back into his pocket. Aubin was lying in his grave while Porthos was once more engaged in trying to save the Queen Consort's life. Had it been worthwhile? It had not ended well, and Sir Edmund Temple was once more a threat to the stability of the English crown, which in itself placed France in a precarious position. Temple's need to rid the England of her Catholic Queen had led them into this when he had made Elizabeth Cromwell his scapegoat when his plans did not come to fruition. But the man was still at large, and Porthos doubted his ambitions had changed. No, he could not deny this _was_ a worthy mission.

Looking up and seeing they had reached the crossroad, he sighed heavily as he pulled his horse to a stop next to Athos and Aramis.

"Well, if there was a signpost, it is long gone," Aramis said, looking ahead at the two intersecting roads.

"Aramis, you elected to ride to Dieppe; do you know which road to take?"Athos said, casting a stern eye at Aramis.

Aramis withered a little under the glare.

"Have you ever been to Dieppe?" Athos continued, awaiting an answer with ill-disguished impatience.

"I'll know it when I see it," Aramis replied, defensively.

Athos sighed.

"Who has the map?" he asked, wearily.

"You do," Aramis replied sheepishly. He was aiming for triumphant, but it didn't quite come off.

Athos looked at Porthos, who wisely looked away.

"His moods sourin' the closer we get to England," he muttered, to no-one in particular.

"Yes," Aramis brightened, "Why do you dislike England so, Athos?"

"Because it rains a lot," Porthos said, beating Athos to any answer he may have deigned to give.

Athos looked up to see them both looking heavenward at the darkening clouds beginning to gather, which were stretching as far as the eye could see.

Porthos shrugged. "Or maybe it's the food," he grunted.

By this time, Athos had dismounted and was rummaging in his saddlebags for the folded map.

Porthos was just about to take out a coin to toss when a small movement to his left made him stop.

There was nothing there.

Porthos shook his head. There had been times over the last few weeks where he could have sworn he was not alone. He had once felt a push at his back and twice he could have sworn he heard a familiar laugh.

Now, he looked at his brothers, and waited.

"Dammit, it's in here somewhere!" Athos was beginning to curse.

But Porthos was not listening; he _had_ seen something.

There, tied to a branch of a tree on the other side of the road, was a piece of red twine.

Porthos stared at it, before beginning to laugh.

He was still laughing as he turned his horse, kicking its flanks, and slowly headed off along the road that veered to the left.

"Forget the map; this is our road," he said to Athos, as he rode off, expecting Athos to follow.

"I think he expects you to follow," Aramis said.

Porthos looked back at the branch and the red twine had gone. You always had to be quick to catch Aubin, he laughed. He raised his hand to Aramis and rode on.

Aramis gave him a salute and turned his horse on the other road, to Dieppe. He and Athos exchanged a look and then they too said their quick farewells.

Athos gave Porthos a sideways look when he caught him up, but decided to leave it. Sometimes, his brothers were beyond his understanding.

oOo

As Porthos and Athos got closer to the coast, the weather closed in bringing driving rain and wind. They stopped to pull on their cloaks and pulled their hats down low; not wanting yet to stop to seek shelter.

"It's because we are getting closer to England," Athos grumbled. "It always rains in England."

"Yeah," Porthos smiled. "This will affect the sailings," he added.

"That is not a bad thing," Athos replied. "We have lost some time on the way. Now we have a chance to make it up. Hopefully Treville and his companion will be ensconced somewhere dry, and will emerge when the sun shines," he smiled then.

"And, if he doesn't find them, Aramis will leave Dieppe and meet us in Boulogne," Porthos replied. He did not like to be separated in this way.

"Let us hope that Treville and Elizabeth are there, safe and well," Athos murmured; their discovery of blood and ammunition in the barn playing on his mind.

Eventually, thunder rumbled overhead and the rain became too heavy to continue. What traffic there was on the road slowed even further; they saw only one lone trader, battling to get his wares along the road to his destination. They took cover beneath the trees as the road ahead was now awash.

Only two riders braved this stretch; huddled in their cloaks, hats pulled low. Their horses stumbled as they road past. Foolish in the extreme, Athos thought as he watched them go.

It was an hour later when the rain stopped and they moved carefully on. The thunder had moved away toward the coast. Athos did not know whether this was good or bad. It would certainly halt any vessels leaving port, but the storm was obviously on the move, so some hardy mariners _may_ take a risk and follow it out of harbour.

oOo

Ahead, Recule and Verdier had drawn their horses to a halt and secured them in the woodland. They now lay in wait for the two Musketeers they had passed sheltering from the rain a while ago.

oOo

The problem Athos had was that if Aramis discovered Treville and Elizabeth in Dieppe, he would not have the letter of authority that Athos held. However, the ports of Dieppe and Boulogne were close enough that they all could ride to Boulogne to meet up. If Treville was not there, or the weather was not conducive to travel, Aramis would ride to Boulogne anyway.

He was musing on this, when a small, metal object rolled in front of their horses and, seeing it had a trailing fuse which was alight and fizzing, Porthos reacted;

" _Bomb_!"

Their horses shied, beginning to rear upward, and Porthos and Athos both quickly dismounted at the same time. As their feet hit the ground and they struggled to contain their panicking mounts, they were met by two men who emerged from the woodland training pistols on them. At that moment, their horses pulled free and galloped off.

The "bomb" puttered out and Athos heard Porthos sigh loudly next to him. Athos turned and raised an eyebrow at him, and Porthos shrugged.

They both held up their hands in surrender.

"Musketeers," the taller one said, with some satisfaction.

"Gaspar Recule, I presume," Athos replied, as they were divested of their weapons.

oOo

Verdier pushed them apart and trained his pistol on Porthos as Recule tied Athos's hands in front of him. Once secure, Verdier moved on to Porthos, who by this time, realised it was not worth fighting, as Recule now had his pistol hard against Athos's temple. Athos had given him a silent look anyway, so he presumed that he was not too dissatisfied at finally meeting these two gentlemen.

Verdier then tied their hands together so they were side by side and finally removed a longer rope from his horse and tied looped it around their bonds and walked back to his horse and mounted. Athos sighed. They were to be made to walk behind the men's horses. Recule had held his pistol trained on them the whole time and seeing them secure, he now swung into his saddle and they moved off.

Porthos growled as they turned off the road and continued into the woodland. It was not easy going. The ground was wet and muddy and clung to their boots. Soon, their shoulders ached from the unnatural position. In the wake of Verdier's horse, they were subject to branches whipping back; having to duck to avoid injury.

"There's only two of 'em," growled Porthos after half an hour.

"It could have been a real bomb. Do not distress yourself," Athos said quietly.

"Wherever we are goin' it can't be far away, or they risk being seen, pullin' us along like cattle."

"Good," Athos replied, "Then we can soon be on our way."

"Shut your mouths, or we'll make sure you lose your footin'" Recule called out, without turning around.

As if to mark his words, he kicked his horses' flanks and they were forced to either speed up, or fall.

Porthos growled again, as his foot slipped and he fought to right himself; leaning heavily on Athos beside him.

He was put out that they were wasting time; but at least they now had chance to stop these men.

"We walked into this," Porthos said, keeping his voice low.

"Do you know of any other way?" Athos murmured under his breath as they stumbled along behind the horses.

"It better not rain," Porthos grunted, as a thin branch caught him across his forehead.

But Athos knew it did not do to underestimate these men. They had somehow overtaken them. That meant if there were more of them, they could also overtake Aramis.

This was not going entirely according to plan.

 **To be continued** ...


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

It must have been a house their captors knew, as they had a key.

Athos thought that it may have been a tavern at some point; briefly lamenting the possibility.

Now, it was a double fronted two-storey house with outbuildings at the rear. They could hear fast running water, indicating a river nearby.

They had emerged from the woodland into more open countryside, and the house stood in the corner of a small field. The road ran to the side of a tall hedge that bordered the house, and it seemed their walk through the woods had merely taken them off the public highway, before circling back.

As they came to a halt, their two captors were talking quietly, and Athos heard Verdier say they did not have time for this. Recule ignored him and dismounted.

Verdier sighed and followed, untying the rope and winding it in.

Recule unlocked the door and stood aside, his pistol pointing in their direction as Verdier pushed them both through the door and into a short corridor, at the end of which was a straight stairway.

They were led upstairs to a windowless room, where their hands were now tied behind their backs, one by one, a pistol levelled at them until the task was done. Shoved down onto the floor, Recule and Verdier then retreated downstairs.

"Think they've got any food?" Porthos said hopefully, pulling himself into a sitting position.

oOo

Before too long, they heard heavy footsteps on the stair, and steeled themselves for interrogation.

"We're wasting time," one of them was hissing at the other, as they came through the door and stood over them. "They are Musketeers. They won't talk."

"We don't need them to," Recule said, looking at his two prisoners with a smug expression.

This was not something Porthos wanted to hear. He had expected questions, demands, even a beating, but not merely to be imprisoned. They had been searched thoroughly though, and their captors had found nothing. Now in seemed, to these men, they were a mere inconvenience. They had their eye on a more lucrative prize.

The shorter man was still agitated.

"We know they are making for the coast! We're lookin' for their Captain, the prisoner, and now _their_ Musketeer mate," Recule continued, nodding at Porthos, who practically growled at them.

"My job was to kill her but who knows what someone will pay to get her back? These soldier boys are goin' to a lot of trouble to get her to safety," Recule spat at him.

Gaspar Recule stepped toward Porthos and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back; a knife suddenly at his throat.

"What's she worth, Musketeer? Who wants her?!" he snarled.

Porthos was still, his eyes never losing contact with the man now snarling in his face.

"What is Sir Edmund Temple paying you?" Athos asked suddenly. "Whatever it is, it's not enough. You do not know what you are into."

Recule sneered, releasing Porthos and rounding on Athos.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Looks as if there's more than him who are interested in her. The King's Musketeers! Now that's interestin'. Why is Louis interested in an English maid?"

Athos and Porthos shared a look.

"Wherever your mate is, he won't be helping you. There are more of us on the road," Verdier added.

Recule had not denied it; it was obvious now that this man knew Edmund Temple, for it could only be Temple, who must have had Elizabeth watched from the moment she had entered The Chatelet. One more piece of evidence had just slotted into place.

"Separate them!" Recule suddenly hissed, having caught the look they had given each other, realising they knew he was in the pay of the Englishman.

"Their Captain can't be far ahead, or they wouldn't still be on the road heading North."

Verdier grabbed Athos by his hair, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him out the door. Porthos was up on his knees, shouting, but Recule followed Verdier, leaving Porthos alone, still shouting as the door was banged shut.

Once their footsteps had faded away, Porthos began furiously working at the ropes which held his hands behind his back. He had no idea where they had taken Athos, nor what, exactly they wanted with them. What worried Porthos though, was the fact that it seemed they did not want _anything_ from them.

When Verdier came back alone, Porthos stilled as he set to lighting the fire in the room. Porthos watched him suspiciously, unsure what he was doing. Then Verdier approached him and grabbed his hair once more. He saw the fist but could not move, his hair still being held tightly and his body bent back in an unnatural position.

When he came to, sometime later, he smelled smoke. It seemed that the fire Verdier had lit had set the old chimney on fire, and smoke was now billowing into the room.

oOo

Meanwhile Athos had been shoved downstairs and his hands had been retied in front of him. He was pushed through a small wooden door at the side of the chimney breast. It seemed to lead to another small room attached to the house, accessible across a short worn stone-flagged path.

It was narrow, and too small for one person to comfortably stand, as thick metal rods embedded across the width of the building prevented that.

It appeared to be built on the back of the chimney, both buildings sharing the wall, and there was a small open flue at the base and another about fifteen feet above. Looking up, Athos saw that it was a single tall narrow building, being the height of the house it was attached to. There no windows. The roof high above him was pyramid-style, with heavy supporting beams across and another vent in the centre of the pointed roof; although no light filtered through. The roof space was dark; the wood blackened to such a degree it had been rendered furry. The smell was pungent, even though the building was empty. He recognised it from his own outbuildings at Pinon.

It was a smoke house.

oOo

Here, in the past, meat had been salted and hung whilst smoke had been directed in through the flue from the adjoined chimney. The salted meat would then be smoked and so preserved. There was a space in the middle of the wooden floor that had, at some time, held a fire of its own, but this had long gone, and it was within its boundary that Athos now stood. It looked as if the previous owners had used the integral chimney to also serve this building.

Metal rods rose at intervals above his head to the roof, the nearest one being just out of reach above his head. Each rod had a row of hooks, which were within touching distance, obviously used to hang the meat.

Athos knew that if he attempted any attack on Recule, Porthos would pay for it.

Gaspar Recule had crowded him inside and pulled his tied hands roughly above his head to hang them on the hook above him. The position stretched his arms painfully, his feet barely touching the floor.

Recule said nothing, and showed no emotion, as he stepped outside and stood looking at him.

"Just so you know, the walls are thick. Little sound penetrates. Shout all you like Musketeer."

He slammed the door, and Athos was pitched into utter darkness.

oOo

Upstairs, Porthos heard the horses outside and realised that their jailers had ridden off.

Smoke was billowing out of the chimney and into the room. Unlike Athos, his wrists were still tied behind his back. He started working against time at the ropes tying his wrists. He grimaced as his skin became sore, before breaking.

There were no windows in this small room, the original one having been bricked up, it seemed. In a seated position, he shuffled over to the wall and turned his back to it, running his hands over the rough brickwork. Finding a broken stone, he began to rub the ropes furiously across the jagged edge, further abrading his wrists. Amid grunts and curses, he worked swiftly until he felt one of the rope twists give.

His shoulders screaming, he was sweating with exertion now. The smoke was rising toward the ceiling, buying him time as the crouched low on the floor. His arms were aching from stretching but he continued. _He had to find Athos._ He did not know where he was, or whether he had been taken when the two jailers had left. His task consumed him, and he gritted his teeth and increased his pace, fast running out of energy, but driven on by adrenaline.

Suddenly one of the ropes twists gave, and he looked up at the ceiling and said a small prayer to whoever was up there, as he shook his hands free. He staggered to his feet and lurched to the door, but it was obviously barred from the other side.

"This ain't right," he muttered, "I'm on the good side!"

Turning, he saw a small crack of light shining above the brickwork he had been pummelling, where the pointing had broken free. He dropped to his knees and scrabbled forward, using his fingers and the heels of his hands to break it free. It seemed to take forever, and he was coughing now, as the room filled with smoke. The hole gradually widened, and he then sat back and began to kick at it furiously.

Finally, four bricks shifted at the same time and with a last kick, he punched a hole the size of his head into the wall. A few minutes more kicking and he had a hole that he could crawl out of.

He peered through it, before remembering he was on the first floor, and the drop below looked a little daunting.

"Aubin," he muttered. "I could do with a little luck right now. Your horseshoe is right here, in my pocket!" he shouted.

But the smoke was getting thick, and he had to make a decision. Pushing his feet through first, he slid through the hole and twisted until he was hanging perilously by his hands, his face pressed against the outside wall.

Closing his eyes, he let go.

oOo

Smoke was also finding its way into the smoke house. The design of the building was such that only a small amount of smoke would have been required to smoke the meat hanging in layers from ceiling to floor. The smell of previous smoking's was beginning to leach from the walls and beams. The small vent in the roof allowed the smoke to escape, so Athos knew he would not choke to death yet, but he would eventually. The design of the building meant the majority of the smoke was, of course, meant to remain the building.

He thought he had heard his captors horses leave, and any thought that they merely just imprisoned Porthos and himself while they got away, quickly fled.

This was intentional, and he grew fearful for Porthos.

It was getting uncomfortably warm, and in the pitch black, he began to flex his fingers within his bonds.

But his hands were tied tightly to the hook above his head, his arms were numb and he could not twist his fingers sufficiently in order to get a purchase on it.

As his energy began to desert him, it became harder to hold himself up and he began to feel the pressure on his wrists, as the ropes around them tightened with his weight.

As the heat and the smoke increased, his head began to swim and he realised there was no way out of this.

He barely registered the last painful pull on his wrists as his legs finally gave way.

 **To be continued ...**


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

Porthos hadn't seen it before, but, just like Athos before him, he landed on a bale of old hay.

"That's a coincidence," he muttered, as he sat up. It hadn't been as big a drop as the one Athos had taken, and so he wasn't winded. He was just surprised.

He breathed in fresh air to his battered lungs and patted his pocket, saying a silent thank you.

His hands were a mess, but hopefully any damage was superficial and would heal. At least he still had all his fingernails.

Barging back into the house, he rampaged through each room, throwing open door after door; but the house was empty. Heading back outside, he looked wildly around, unsure of what to do. There was an odd smell in the air, though, and he followed his nose. The chimney fire had obviously set another building on fire. He could see smoke rising from behind the house. He went to investigate it, fearing it may be a stable.

Rounding the back of the house, he saw the smoke-house.

It was not on fire. _It was in use_.

Porthos frowned, as the whole area he was standing in was deserted, and had been for some years. Suddenly he snapped into action.

He banged on the door,

" _Athos?!"_

There was no answer.

Exhausted as he was, he began to kick at the wooden struts around the handle. The door was solid, as was to be expected, and at first, it did not move. Under his frenzied assault, though, it began to give, and one of the planks finally shifted.

Porthos pulled at it, and getting his sore hands around the handle on the inside, he pulled it open.

oOo

The smell of smoked meat assaulted him, and a heavy cloud of smoke drifted out above his head.

When it cleared, Porthos saw Athos, unmoving, and hanging from a hook on the iron rod above his head. His legs had given way and he was taking his whole weight on his wrists. Porthos wedged the door open to allow the smoke to clear and fresh air to circulate, before stepping inside the confined space.

"Dammit!" Porthos cried as he pulled open Athos's doublet, seeing his shirt beneath stuck to his skin with perspiration.

He took Athos's weight around his waist, preparing to heave him up.

" _Athos, help me dammit ... try and move your hands_!"

There was no response.

Athos's head lolled back and with a huge effort, Porthos lifted him up, in an attempt to push his hands up and free them from the hook. But his strength was failing him, his own hands were painful and the ropes had tightened too much from the weight of Athos's boneless body.

He needed to cut them, but their weapons had been taken from them by Recule and Verdier.

As much as he hated to do it, he would have to leave Athos and search the house once more for a knife, or anything that would cut through the ropes.

"I'm comin' back, Athos," he whispered with a gentle swipe with bloodied fingers across his brother's face before he turned and ran back into the house.

Heading through the door at the rear of the building, he emerged next to the chimney breast. There was an old wooden cupboard set against the wall, and he opened doors and pulled out every drawer, tossing them roughly aside; but the cupboard was empty.

Turning to the window, he wildly considered smashing it, and using shards of glass, but instead, he headed into what must have been a small kitchen. He had run into it before, looking for Athos, and had registered nothing apart from it being empty. This time, he again pulled opened drawers before turning to an old table, leaning precariously on its worn legs. Losing patience he took hold of the edge and tipped it up with a roar. It fell unevenly, and he almost stumbled against it, before he realised, looking down, that their sword belts had been thrown underneath it; discarded, either not needed or too bulky to be taken by their captors. Grabbing hold of a main gauche, he pushed his way through the room, climbing over the discarded and broken furniture, and back outside to the smoke house.

"I'm here," he said, as he stepped back inside; his voice echoing around the narrow building now that the door was open.

Leaving Athos hanging, Porthos reached up and began to carve at the rope with the dagger.

The smell of long ago smoked meat, mixed with sweat and dry heat made his stomach roil.

He slid his arm around Athos as the last strand of rope gave under the blade, and attempted to take Athos's weight as he was freed.

Athos moaned as his legs went from under him completely, and Porthos found him sliding down bonelessly, out of his grasp. He followed him down onto the floor, where they both ended up halfway out of the door, in a tangled heap.

Athos made a feeble attempt to fight off whoever was doing this to him, before Porthos slapped him a couple of times on the face to bring him back.

"It's me, I've got ya," Porthos hissed, grabbing his hands and holding him still.

"Remind me never to eat meat again," Athos whispered, before going limp.

"Yeah, good luck with that," Porthos muttered, pulling him into his chest.

oOo

Athos came round on the bank of the nearby river, his back against a tree. At first, he started, but then saw Porthos in front of him.

"How did you get out?" he whispered to the dusty, familiar, grinning face.

"Loose brickwork," Porthos answered, showing Athos his bloodied fingers.

He nodded up to the top of the bank. There, looking down at them, where their two horses.

"Just 'ad to whistle and they came up the road," he said. "Musketeer 'orses," he added proudly.

"Before you ask, the Captain's letter is safe," he finished, holding up an oilskin bundle from where he had retrieved it, fastened tightly under Roger's saddle.

Athos smiled, but started drifting off again.

"Eh, no you don't," Porthos said urgently, slipping down into the water and soaking his bandana. He climbed clumsily back up to Athos and began wiping his face.

Athos's head fell forward onto his chest, and Porthos turned his nose up.

"Ugh, you smell like a chimney."

"Hardly surprising," Athos muttered haughtily, before a violent coughing fit overtook him, and he went limp again.

Porthos pulled Athos's boots off and then pulled him forward by his feet and began to slide him down the bank toward the water. Feeling his forehead, it felt warm and clammy. His shirt was clinging to him, and a sheen of sweat covered his face and chest. Heat exhaustion, Porthos thought. He had to get him cooled off.

"There's only one thing for it, my fevered friend," he growled.

Crouching in front of him, Porthos shucked him out of his shirt and breeches and pulled him bodily into the water. Using his bandana, he wiped his neck and shoulders, before pulling him forward into his chest and soaking his back.

He dumped a handful of water over Athos's head, as a remaining sickly, smoky aroma came from his hair. Then, he tied his wet bandana around Athos's head, and climbing up behind him; he pulled him back up the bank to his place against the tree.

Porthos smiled to himself. The Comte would not be happy with his current attire, but he was in no state to complain.

"There, all fine and fit," he chuckled, as he laid out wet clothes on the grass and settled back to dry himself in the sun.

When Athos woke up a short while later, Porthos was snoring beside him and their horses had found their way into the shallow edges of the river and were quite content. Unbeknown to him, Porthos had redressed him, but the damp bandana was still in place.

Reaching up, his hand fell on it, and he pulled it off in disgust, and tossed it toward a now-stirring Porthos.

oOo

The wet bandana was pushed into his hands once more a little while later, as Athos rubbed at his sore eyes, in an attempt to rid them of smoke and grit.

"Don't rub 'em, you'll make it worse," Porthos growled, standing over him. "Hold this against them," he said, and Athos obediently raised the wet bandana to cover his face.

Porthos leaned back and stretched to get the kinks out of his back. The horses were still above them on the path, looking down at him; watching the proceedings.

"What you lookin' at?" Porthos muttered as his spine cracked.

Athos huffed a laugh behind the bandana, which made Porthos laugh quietly himself, as he slid down, next to Athos, with a tired sigh.

Athos reached out and his hand fell clumsily against Porthos's arm, his voice not yet recovered sufficiently to speak his thanks.

"I don't get it. Why didn't they just kill us?" Porthos said later as a groggy Athos was doing his best to bandage his fingers.

"Maybe they thought they had," Athos replied, as he finished tying off the linen strips around Porthos's fingers and another coughing fit took him.

Porthos handed him the water skin, and he took a long drink.

They were preparing to saddle up. Porthos had retrieved their weapon belts and had walked the horses onto the track leading back to the main road. He looked over at the house, the smoke now pouring out of the roof slates. Soon, it would be consumed by flames. He would not be sorry to see it burn to the ground.

"Why light the fire? The room was secure, with no windows. They must have known the chimney was blocked."

"If they did, they didn't care," Athos replied.

"Recule is obviously used to locking people up and throwing away the key," Athos added. "But we must go now Porthos; Treville and Elizabeth are in grave danger."

Taking up the reins of their horses, they mounted and moved off.

They were both worried about Aramis, who was ahead somewhere; alone.

oOo

Aramis was, meanwhile, nearing Dieppe. He would arrive within the hour.

The two men Recule had tasked with heading for Dieppe could not believe their luck. They had been sitting out the rain in a tavern; the washed out roads making it impossible to carry on for fear of harm becoming their horses. They were preparing to leave when the door banged open. Looking up they saw the lone Musketeer, shaking the rain from his hat.

They waited until the Musketeer had taken a seat at the end of the room before they stood and quietly left the tavern.

It was time to lay a trap.

oOo

In the dull grey light, Aramis did not see the thin rope stretched between the trees. It skimmed the horse roughly across the top of its head and took him in his chest. Before he realised what was happening, he was painfully unseated. He twisted before his back hit the ground, thereby breaking his fall somewhat. He raised his head in time to see his frightened horse galloping off.

In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of a boot. Looking up he saw the two men who stood over him. Before he was kicked in the head, he had committed their faces fully to his memory.

oOo

When he opened his eyes, the weak sun was in the same position, so he calculated that he had not been senseless for long. He had obviously been searched and his money had been taken. His vision whited out briefly as he raised himself to his elbows, his legs stretched out in front of him. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he whistled loudly before lying back down and closing his eyes. A few moments later, he heard the pounding of hooves, and raised his head. He smiled weakly as his horse came into view, running toward him, apparently unscathed but still skittish.

For a moment, he did not think she was going to stop and wondered if he had the energy to move out of the way, but she came to a halt at the last minute and bent her head to nuzzle his face. His water skin was still attached to his saddle and he said a silent prayer as he staggered to his feet and unhooked it, whispering gently to her until she stilled. Taking a long drink, he straightened carefully; his chest protesting from the obvious bruising developing from the rope. It was still strung across the road and he unfastened it, wound it up and hooked it on his saddle.

Mounting with a grimace and a groan, he set off in pursuit of his two attackers; their faces burned into his memory.

 **To be continued ...**


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

 **A Rendezvous**

Not far away, Recule and Verdier stood in a quarry, awaiting the four members of their gang. It was a place chosen for its proximity to the ports they sought. As the allotted time for their rendezvous came and went, only one man approached them.

Recule had sent two of his men to Dieppe and another to Calais. He was not displeased by their failure to meet. They would be keeping watch for Treville, no doubt.

He had no way of knowing they would not, for Treville had killed one man at the barn and Aramis was in pursuit of the two who had attacked him.

Recule, Verdier and the one remaining gang member now headed to Boulogne-sur-Mer, a distance of five leagues.

oOo

Aramis was now taking a tight circular route as the two he sought were obviously heading for Dieppe. It was as he had told Athos at the crossroad; the route was coming back to him, despite the headache he was suffering from the blow to his head.

Ahead of him lay a small hamlet. He rode in and made contact with some of the elders of the community. It seemed they had been subject in recent months to numerous robberies on the road. They were an easy target as a community but had now organised themselves to protect their homes and the attacks had lessened, although the main road was still a dangerous place to be at times.

After further discussions, and accepting their hospitality in terms of a drink and a salve for his bruised head, he retreated to the outskirts of the hamlet, where he lay in wait.

He had unwound the rope his attackers had left and had strung it between two trees. They would meet the same fate they had sought for him.

The two men were not on guard when they appeared. In fact, they were in high spirits. Neither did they seem to be in a hurry, but seeing the hamlet ahead, they urged their horses to speed. They had seen off one of the Musketeers, leaving him with no money, or horse, at the mercy of the villains who traversed the coast road, seeking to rob anyone who was not prepared. They doubted he would last long.

The rope took them high, just missing their throats, and Aramis took some pleasure in seeing them flung from their horses, as he had been a short while earlier. Taking advantage of their stunned condition, he untied the rope and dragged them both to a tree, securing them tightly around the chest. Then he took his seat across from them and waited.

One of them had an obvious dislocated shoulder, and when he came to, he was pliable in the face of a musket aimed at his face. In obvious pain, he answered the Musketeers questions, before his companion awoke and accused him of betrayal.

Aramis thanked him and smiled his most charming of smiles, before rising and getting ready to mount his horse. The man looked around, in panic.

"Wait, you are not leaving us here?!"

Aramis looked down on them from his saddle, his hands crossed casually over the pommel of his saddle.

"As you left me?"

The other one was becoming more focused, and started to struggle against his bonds.

"Don't worry my friend. There is a village ahead. I will send someone for you. In fact, they are waiting for you."

Robbers caught and tied to trees were a gift to villagers sorely tested. The elders of the hamlet had been very accepting of Aramis's plan for these two. One way or another, they would not be following him anymore.

He tipped his hat and swung his horse around and took off to Dieppe. Built within extensive walls, its impressive castle, the Chateau d'Arques-la-Bataille and the church roofs and spires of Saint-Jacques and Saint-Remi were very soon clearly visible in the distance.

Standing at the mouth of the Arques river, Dieppe was a premier port, but Aramis wondered if Treville would think of it as he had of Calais; too busy, too dangerous.

He was not surprised to see boats lashed together in the harbour, sheltering from the storms that had lashed the coast. The taverns were full of mariners, their hands idle until the squalls blew through and allowed them to leave port. It did not take Aramis long to find the Harbourmaster's office. There had been no sailings during the past two days, and none were expected until the weather cleared. The Harbour master was a sullen man, with no time to answer any more questions about when things may change.

Aramis roamed the quayside in plain sight, but saw no-one familiar. Reverting to plan, he would now make his way to Bolougne, and join up with Porthos and Athos and find, or await, Treville and Elizabeth there. It was a journey of twenty five leagues, and would take him until late the next day before he would sight his destination; possibly longer. He was heartened that Dieppe was, and had been of late, at a standstill. Hopefully Bolougne would have similar difficulties, making the possibility of a rendezvous more possible.

He had been robbed of his money, but he still had a few coins in his boot, a habit he had gotten into during his time as a Musketeer. He spared a short time to buy scallops on the quayside and take a drink, before seeing to his horse. He watched the harbour from the doorway of a tavern, brimming with drunken, frustrated sailors, waiting to board their vessels and be on their way.

Then, pulling his hat low over his eyes, he pulled his cloak around him, and straightened, giving his sore chest a massage, before walking his horse back to the road to Bolougne. He would afford himself a few hours rest if he needed it along the way.

Boulogne, he knew, had a growing culture of smuggling. Perhaps their Captain had this port in mind over more popular ports.

Soon, he was on the road. He would see his brothers soon. And, hopefully, he would see his Captain and Mistress Cromwell.

 **oOo**

 **Captain Jacques-Luc Foubier: A Most Unusual Man**

Treville and Elizabeth had reached Boulogne two hours before noon, and had gone straight to the harbour. The quay was alive with activity. Boats and ships, as yet going nowhere, were at least being loaded up.

Under the grey skies and cold rain, the gulls swooped, scavenging what they could from the cobbles, their mournful cries filling the air. The rain had lashed down all night, but Treville and Elizabeth had at least had cover in an inn, leaving at first light for their journey to the port. At first, Treville had been concerned about finding them accommodation, but many of the sailors had now taken to sleeping on board their vessels, ready to take the first possible tide.

Treville and Elizabeth were now, as Athos had hoped, somewhere dry, waiting for the weather to finally break.

Earlier, Treville had made discreet enquiries, and it had not taken him long before he was introduced to Captain Jacques-Luc Foubier, a man of dubious background but apparently of good character.

Considering the circumstances, it had been an auspicious meeting, which he knew was partly due to the amount of money the man required to provide passage. Treville had expected it, and, in view of the past few days, would have paid whatever the man requested. Also, the man intrigued him, sitting on a crate, smoking a long clay pipe, while issuing orders to several men, who obeyed him without question.

They had weighed each other up, these two world-weary men. Neither had looked away and something had passed in that look that led to a spark of interest in both men.

Elizabeth had hung back, keeping her eyes on the ground, suddenly feeling vulnerable now that they were on the busy quay. Here, she was amongst men the like of whom she had only recently become aware of; lowly working men who could be fearsome or sly in equal measure, who lived in a different world entirely to the one known to her. Her world had been that where men were high born gentlemen whose code of conduct was on a different level to those of her recent experience.

The only kindness she had known of late had come from soldiers of the King's own guard; Musketeers, who no doubt could be equally fearsome and driven, but who were bound, it seemed, by a code of honour and bound to this man she had travelled with, who had prized her from The Chatelet and whose determination to get her to England had not wavered.

Jacques-Luc Foubier was cautious about speaking in the open air, and had shown them to a back street tavern where they could conduct business. Treville had been careful not to divulge his own identity, merely explaining it was imperative that he and his companion reach England as soon as possible.

Stepping over the threshold of the dubious establishment behind the fish market, they were met with the raucous laughter of over a dozen sea-going men, heavily tattooed and heavily drunk, even at this early hour. It seemed everyone was waiting on a break in the weather.

"My apologies," Foubier said, ushering them both past the men and through to a back room, which was not as crowded. They settled at a table in an alcove and Foubier called for the fire to be lit. An elderly man bustled in with kindling and after a few aborted attempts, as he battled against the wind howling down the chimney, a small fire was lit.

"Is this place safe?" Treville asked gruffly. From what he had seen of the quayside, their exit could not come too soon.

"It is, I can vouch for it," Foubier said, a smirk on his face.

"You use it a lot?" Treville said, looking around.

"I own it," Foubier smiled. "But I understand your caution," he added, his eyes sliding to Elizabeth.

At first he had thought she was a boy, but now, he could see her fair hair, tied back but no longer tucked inside the leather doublet she wore, instead hanging down her back. This was no boy. Meeting his gaze, she quickly swung her hair over her shoulder and pushed it back under her collar.

Treville got down to business, and booked passage on Foubier's boat, a three masted Lugger, for the evening tide. There was still some doubt as to whether the waiting vessels could leave the harbour, the tail end of the storm that had raged was still blowing through, but the rain had eased somewhat and Treville was eager to move on to the final stage of their journey.

Now, Elizabeth sat between the two men, at their insistence, as they conducted their business across her. Elizabeth kept her head down, even though they were now the only people in this room, but she watched Foubier from the corner of her eye.

He as a tall man, with thick dark hair that curled on his collar. He had hazel eyes, a straight nose and full lips. A beard of sorts; more a dark shadow, leant a certain fearsomeness to his looks, until you noticed the wrinkles around his eyes, brought about from the smile that often transformed his features. He had the ready smile of someone very confident.

His voice was that of someone well-born; he had no mariner's tattoos and she had seen that he did have manners. He had treated her courteously, ensuring her comfort by asking for the fire to be lit and food to be brought to them. Soon, though, she tired of sitting between them as they spoke across her, and politely excused herself and moved to the left of Treville, out of earshot.

After a while, Treville went to get her some mulled wine as she was visibly shivering, the fire doing little to ease the cold in her bones. While Treville was away, Foubier had turned to her and leant in a little too closely on a point of interest they were briefly discussing; his smile a little too predatory for her liking. He instantly felt the sharp point of a blade beneath his chin and raised his eyes to hers. There was not a hint of playfulness on her face, but a look of determination.

She had shot a man in the back, enduring weeks in a dank Paris prison, repelling all prison staff who came near to her. She had sewn Treville's wound and had ridden through Northern France with pursuers no doubt on their heels. She was not, now that her feet were soon to be on English soil, about to fall foul of this adventurer, no matter how handsome and charming he thought himself.

Treville had seen the exchange from across the room and had watched in amusement before crossing back with replenished drinks and giving Foubier a knowing smile. To his credit, Foubier had acquiesced courteously and removed himself some distance from her. Elizabeth gratefully accepted the mulled wine and drank, her own smile hidden by the rim of her cup as she raised it to her lips.

They watched as the rain once more lashed the tavern windows in a final act of defiance, the heavy clouds moving out toward the west, making their passage on the late tide a distinct possibility.

Foubier and Treville continued their discussion, seeming to come to an agreement. Elizabeth wondered if Treville was trying to recruit Foubier into the Musketeers. He could have worse, she thought, looking at the man's powerful biceps and the fine blade he carried on his hip.

She smiled to herself when she thought how Porthos would take to him. Perhaps one high born enigmatic man was enough for their brotherhood.

oOo

Porthos and Athos found their onward ride revived them and soon, they crested a hill to see the large expanse of water, the English Channel, in the distance with the rooftops and spires of Boulogne ahead.

One port on this northern coastline was very much like another, and it was a sight both welcome and daunting for neither knew what they would find; whether they would see their comrades again, or whether this mission would prove to be a folly they would all regret.

If they failed, the Queen Consort's life would remain in jeopardy, and their own would be forfeit.

Richelieu would see to it.

Putting uncertainty behind them, they spurred their horses on, eager to put the past few days behind them to reach their destination and be within the confines of the port.

 **To be continued ...**


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

Following decades of war and occupation by the English, the town of Boulogne had been heavily fortified; nine towers were incorporated into thick stonework. A medieval castle stood at one corner of the walls, strengthening the landward facing corner of the town's defensive walls. It was through one of the four gateways that an exhausted Aramis entered. He barely noticed his surroundings.

After stabling his equally tired horse and ensuring her a good feed, he made his way to the Harbourmasters office, where he and his brothers had arranged to ultimately meet. They would be watching for him, and for Treville.

In view of his experience on the road, he had harboured increasing fears that they may have encountered similar violence, and his step was heavier than normal as he considered the many scenarios that had plagued him on his ride from Dieppe.

Walking toward the quay however, he started to smile and his swagger returned.

There ahead, was Porthos, watching for him.

Aramis's keen eyes saw instantly that his fingers were encased in bandages.

Porthos saw him coming, striding along the quay toward him, and visibly relaxed.

"What happened?" Aramis called to him, frowning, before he reached him.

Porthos lifted up his hand and waggled his fingers. Before he could reply, a familiar voice came from his left.

"He had an argument with a brick wall."

Aramis had not seen him, and he whirled around as Athos came toward them. They all embraced happily then, relieved to be together once more.

Stepping back, Athos looked at Aramis, who was holding himself carefully; his bruised chest making breathing uncomfortable. There was also a bruise on his temple.

"What happened?" Athos asked drily, repeating Aramis's earlier question.

"I had an argument with a rope in the forest. They took my money before they kicked me in the head. Fortunately," he brightened, "my horse had the sense to run away, and once the dust had settled, she came back to me."

Porthos and Athos exchanged a knowing look. "Musketeer horses," they said, in unison.

"They were good enough to inform me that they were two of Recule's men," Aramis continued, with a predatory smile.

"So," Porthos said, looking at Aramis, "No money. You hungry?"

"Starving," Aramis replied. "My horse has eaten better than I."

It was now Aramis's turn to look Athos up and down. He looked well; his hair freshly washed, it seemed.

"Well, my friend," Aramis said, after his inspection, "it looks like you are the only one who has escaped any hurt."

Athos and Porthos exchanged another look.

Porthos pulled Aramis toward him and put his arm around his shoulder. Turning him around, and heading in the direction of the tavern they had been using, Porthos smiled;

"Come on," he said, "we'll eat and then tell you all about it,"

Aramis looked bemused, but he allowed himself to be pulled along; his stomach directing him before his curiosity.

A short while later, feeling better for being reunited and relatively unscathed, and after feeding Aramis, they kept watch during the day as the weather finally began to settle. During the afternoon, a ship made steady progress into the harbour. It looked a likely option and after making enquiries, they discovered it was due to sail to England that evening.

Walking back from the Harbour master's office, Aramis was suggesting it would give Treville time to arrive and board. Now they just needed him to appear.

They were standing on the quay when a familiar gruff voice floated down at them from a balcony above.

"You three; up here. Now!"

oOo

At the voice they all froze and then, as one, they looked up at the balcony.

Peering down at them with steel blue eyes and a frown, was their Captain.

Trudging up the stairs to the boarding house rooms to greet Treville brought back recent memories. They had some explaining to do.

Once lined up in front of him, in their customary positions, Treville barked out, "Who the _Hell_ is running The Garrison?!"

Athos drew himself up; aware that the others had taken a step back.

"Your newly appointed temporary Lieutenant, Pellart. All the rostas have been done, and as agreed the King thinks you are escorting a member of the clergy to North West France. The Cardinal has been keeping His Majesty busy with State affairs and there have been more blue cloaks at the Palace than have been seen for a long time," Athos reported. "By now, they will be hunting in Rouen for the foreseeable future."

Treville continued to stare at them, and then he smiled.

It was good to be back with his men.

"You seem to have everything covered," he said. "But why, exactly, are you here?"

He gestured for them to sit. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen, but Treville assured them she was well, and resting in her own room across the landing of the boarding house they now occupied.

Athos reached into his jacket and handed Treville Richelieu's letter and repeated his instructions when to open it. They then told him of Gaspar Recule and Verdier, and, judging by the man Treville had killed and the two Aramis had left tied to a tree, their accomplices.

"We found your ammunition," Athos said, reaching again into his jacket; taking out the leather pouch and handing it to Treville. "And blood," he added, pointedly.

"I was careless," Treville said, frowning. "But the man is dead now, and I won't make the mistake of allowing hunger to override caution again."

Treville sighed as Aramis insisted on checking his wound, but did not argue. He valued the man's expertise, and welcomed putting his own mind at ease before his onward journey. Satisfied, they turned back to the matter in hand.

"So, apart from Recule and Verdier, that's three men accounted for, but there may be more," Porthos said.

oOo

A little later, Elizabeth joined them; still dressed as a Musketeer cadet, but looking well, and happy to see them all again.

Aware of the evening tide, they all left the boarding house and Treville led the way back to the tavern behind the fish market.

"We are not going by commercial shipping routes," Treville told his men as they walked. "I want you to meet Jacques-Luc Foubier; although I doubt that is his real name," he smiled, as they entered the tavern and settled at a table. "He is a Privateer. He runs French brandy and other commodities over to the smaller ports on the south coast of England. He will take us to Deal. According to Elizabeth," he said, smiling at her and taking out a small piece of hemp paper on which she had drawn a basic map, "it is on the Thames estuary, and is a short distance from Greenwich, where the Queen resides."

"Foubier does not know my identity and I would ask that you keep our profession from him. One group of men knowing we are Musketeers is enough."

None of them were wearing their pauldrons and all shared a look of agreement that they would comply with Treville's request.

Just then a man entered, and Treville called him over. The man came forward, greeting patrons and one barmaid in particular as he walked across the room before finally sitting down with them.

Captain Foubier made it a point never to ask questions, but he had seen on his first meeting with Treville earlier, that the man had a certain bearing. Now, seeing him with these three men, he was sure that they were military men. Treville introduced them by name only, but did not give an explanation as to their appearance at his side. He was well aware that Foubier had covertly assessed them as he made his way across, and that his men had done the same to Foubier.

"Gentlemen," Foubier said easily, as he called for wine, and sank down at their table, "If you also seek passage to England, I may have to squeeze you below decks."

"I doubt we can afford your price, Monsieur," Athos said quietly to the man in front of him, having learned what Treville had paid him.

Foubier smiled and leaned forward, holding Athos's gaze.

"I agree, Monsieur Athos, but I am a man of expensive tastes," the Privateer said nonchalantly, waving his hand lightly over his obviously expensive doublet.

He grew serious then, his eyes sweeping them; all frivolousness gone in an instant.

"And I have space for a young English woman who appears to need the protection of a Frenchman. I can assure you, she will have my protection also."

His eyes fell on Elizabeth, sitting between Porthos and Aramis.

"Mistress Cromwell," he said easily, raising his glass to her. "I trust you are rested."

She raised her eyes and gave him a brief smile, "I am, Sir, and looking forward to our voyage."

Fourbier looked once more at Athos. They continued to hold each other's gaze, before Athos's eyes slid across to his Captain.

Treville had watched the exchange with some amusement. He tilted his head at Athos, and his Lieutenant sat back.

The Musketeers had continued to eye Foubier warily as he moved easily around the Tavern; those he spoke to seemed, in turn, at ease with him, and they relaxed a little. He may be a rogue, but he had given them no cause for concern that he cared what their business was.

After Foubier had taken his leave, they all agreed to chip in to pay for a share in the passage that Treville had paid. That would leave Treville with a little more funding once they reached England. Alas, Aramis could not help on this occasion, having been robbed of his money. Foubier had already taken Treville's money earlier, so there was a tussle to make their Captain accept their help but eventually, they prevailed. He was a proud man, and did not accept help readily.

Elizabeth Cromwell spoke excellent French and communication between them all had been good. Now though, if they were to go to England, Treville had always known that he would also have to rely upon her to communicate their needs as his own English was barely adequate.

Treville looked around the table at his men, and smiled.

It was time to swallow his pride, and so he accepted their money.

oOo

Satisified that all was in place, Treville and Elizabeth parted company with Athos, Porthos and Aramis as the three Musketeers returned to the stables to settle their horses for the evening. They would return in time for the evening tide, to ensure Treville and Elizabeth were safely on board and away.

Stepping into the fresh air after the cloying atmosphere of the tavern, it was encouraging to see that a full moon was making its way through the clouds. The rain had finally ceased its intermittent assault and a good stiff breeze remained, which boded well for their onward journey.

Treville and Elizabeth made their way back to the boarding house, to make ready their final preparations to depart, picking their way through increasing throngs of men pushing and shoving in their haste to make ready to board or await their own vessels. The quayside was alive once more.

They had all only parted company for a few moments when Elizabeth fell behind for a few steps as she dodged around a cart laden with crates.

Suddenly, a hand was clamped over her mouth and she was silently pulled into an alleyway.

Treville walked on a few paces before realising she had gone quiet behind him.

Turning around, he looked around him in confusion, before he realised – she was gone.

 **To be continued ...**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Many thanks for continuing to read, review and message me.

oOo

A search; a revelation, and Athos is lost for words.

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

The dockside area of Boulogne was criss-crossed with alleyways and dead ends. It teemed with people working, carts and horses blocking the way; making it impossible to see beyond. Tall warehouses hemmed the roadway and alleys in on all sides.

Amid the noise and bustle of this busy area, Treville was frozen in shock, inwardly cursing his stupidity in letting her out of his sight, even for a moment. He had relaxed, dammit, after seeing his men. He turned in a circle, calling her name. He knew she had not simply got lost. She had been taken.

He searched the quayside where they had walked, only moments before.

He turned a corner, only to meet a dead end.

Walking back, pushing through those who got in his way, he retraced his steps. Then, ahead, lying on the greasy cobblestones, he saw a glove. He quickened his pace and picked it up, turning it over in his hand.

It was one of the cadet gloves she had been wearing since they set out from Paris.

He tucked the glove in his jacket and shouted her name, once more. Narrowing his eyes, he peered once more into the gloom of the shadows and the detritus around him.

People were looking at him now. There was no sign of her.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis were nowhere in sight now. He knew they were heading for the stables and so he hurried after them, his head pounding, fists clenched. He hated to leave the area where he knew she was, somewhere, but he had no choice. The lugger was due to sail on the evening tide, so time was precious.

He had to ask directions to the stables and at first, people ignored his angry shouts. With effort, he calmed himself and finally, an old man pointed him down a short narrow lane, and he set off at a run.

Finding the stable block, which stretched half the length of the lane, he looked frantically around for his men. It was quiet inside; two stable hands looked up as he entered, but seeing his demeanour, nether approached him. He could not see his men but just as he was losing his patience and his temper, he saw Roger. Athos's large black stallion was standing in the far stall; looking impassively at him.

Treville let out a breath as he walked hurriedly up to the horse, looking around as he reached up to run his fingers through his mane; trying to steady himself. Then, behind him, Aramis came in, carrying a bag of feed, and stopped dead when he saw his dishevelled Captain.

"Captain?" he said, surprised to see him, having not so long since parted company.

"Where are Athos and Porthos?" Treville barked out, "Elizabeth has been taken!"

oOo

The four of them searched the area where Treville had last seen Elizabeth.

All the time, they had a feeling that they were being watched; their senses heightened to every movement, every shifting shadow.

"There is only one thing to do," Athos said, quietly, when they had drawn a blank.

They all looked at him.

"We put ourselves in plain sight," he said, "and wait for whoever has Elizabeth to make a move."

"You think they will still be around?" Porthos asked, his eyes still roaming the quayside, fists curled at his side.

"They do not know her value," Athos replied. "They do not know who to contact to pay a ransom. But they know _us_. It is we four they seek now in order to take advantage of this."

oOo

And so they moved to the old tavern at the end of the quay, which stood amid, and in full view of the thoroughfare. Porthos stood outside leaning against the door frame; definitely in plain sight. He glowered at anyone who went inside.

Athos and Treville sat inside.

Time ticked slowly by.

Treville was getting anxious, although he hid it well. Athos knew the signs; a ticking nerve firing in his temple.

"We must wait this out," Athos murmured, carefully watching his Captain. He placed a drink in front of him.

"Have we come this far, Athos?" Treville said with a sadness Athos had never seen before, "risked this much; to fail now?"

He could see Treville was exhausted, mentally and physically. He had invested much in this mission, as they all had; but Athos knew that if anything had happened to Elizabeth Cromwell, Treville would not be the same man.

Athos looked at him, and then his eyes slid around the room. Whoever had Elizabeth may be in this room.

They knew Gaspar Recule and Basile Verdier by sight, and had seen no sign of them.

Aramis had taken up his post on the first floor landing of the tavern, scanning the people below. He too, was looking for Recule and Verdier. From his vantage point, he could see the entrance door and the door at the back of the room, leading into an alley they had searched earlier.

Although the men who waylaid him in the forest were unknown to him, there was a distinct possibility that others were involved in this; equally unknown. His eyes kept drifting to his Captain, sitting below; he noted the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw.

Before long the evening tide had passed, and they were still no closer to knowing who had Elizabeth. Treville had sought out Foubier and rearranged the voyage for the morning tide. Surprisingly, Foubier was accepting of the new arrangement; concerned for the young woman's welfare and offering any assistance. The lugger was going nowhere, he said. Treville thanked him, and returned to the tavern with a heavy heart.

It would be a long night.

oOo

Dawn found them still sitting there.

No-one had approached them.

Athos looked at his Captain, sure he would wish to stay, but seeing he was exhausted.

"Go," he said. "I will stay here a little longer." He looked at Aramis and Porthos, "but you all need to get some rest now."

Catching Treville's look, Athos leaned forward.

"You are no use to her like this," he said quietly.

"Let's meet back here in a few hours and then continue our search," Athos said as they all rose as one. He watched as they left, but his heart too was heavy. He had no idea if they would ever see Elizabeth Cromwell again. The loathsome Sir Edmund Temple had had time to communicate with these men. Who knew what orders he had given them?

He did not know that, as they were searching for Elizabeth, a message was making its way to England, to inform Edmund Temple that she was dead, and that the final payment should be made immediately.

oOo

Athos was still in his seat a few hours later, watching as early morning patrons made their way into the tavern. There had been no sighting of Recule or Verdier, but he knew in his heart they must be near. He could almost feel their eyes on him.

The door opened then and Jacque-Luc Foubier strode in. Casting a practiced eye around the room, he saw Athos and made his way over. Athos watched him approach with a calculated stare.

Without ceremony, Foubier pulled out a stool and sat opposite him; their eyes locked on each other.

"You do not trust me, Monsieur," Foubier said quietly, smiling as he waved his hand for the barmaid.

Despite the early hour, it seemed that this was normal procedure.

The girl came over and slid onto his knee, as Foubier murmured his order into her ear. His hand slid down her back, and she laughed, before pushing up and skipping off.

"What makes you think that?" Athos replied in a low, polite voice.

Foubier did not answer, merely continuing to look at him, in amusement.

Surprisingly, it was Athos who was the first to break eye contact; the man was as exasperating as Aramis at his most frivolous.

Foubier watched as Athos looked around the room, taking in any new patron who stumbled in.

"How do you know she has been taken?" Foubier asked suddenly. "She may have just become bored with the company of men and decided to find her own way back."

Athos did not reward that comment with a reply.

"Is she a noblewoman?" Foubier asked then, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

"She is not," Athos replied after a few moments, looking down at the table; tired of the questions.

" _But_..." Foubier said, picking up on Athos's hesitation, "...she moves in noble circles," he finished.

Athos did not confirm or deny it.

"Oh, come now," Foubier laughed, "she is worth all this trouble to you all – or you would not be here, _Monsieur le Comte_."

Athos froze at his words, his breath catching in his throat. He slowly raised his eyes to Foubier and pinned him with a glare.

Foubier leant forward conspiratorially.

"It takes one to know one," he said quietly.

Pouring a glass of wine; he watched for Athos's reaction as he did so.

Amused by Athos's loss of words, he took a mouthful of wine and suddenly grimaced.

"Ye Gods!" he exclaimed, "What am I serving here?!"

Athos's lip curled in an approximation of a smile at Foubier's discomfort.

"Cheap wine, _My Lord_ ," Athos murmured, in a sarcastic retort to Foubier's use of his own former title. "But I am sure the profits are ample compensation."

"One moment," Foubier said, touching the side of his nose, apparently unconcerned at the jibe. He slid out from the table and disappeared through the door behind the bar.

A few moments later, he was back, holding a dusty bottle in his hand. He approached Athos and held it triumphantly aloft.

"An excellent vintage, from the best Bourgogne vineyards!"

Athos looked at the bottle and tilted his head, smiling in acknowledgement. The Bourgogne winegrowing region was well known, its wines much sought after. This man was extremely annoying but he was going up slightly in his estimation.

"Sadly," he replied, "I am on duty."

Foubier put the bottle down; "Oh yes, I forgot, the _Comte_ is a _soldier_ ," he bowed.

Again, Athos did not confirm or deny his profession.

After a few moments silence, he relented.

"I have renounced my title; my name is Athos," came the deadly retort; his hand resting now on the hilt of his sword, even though he was seated.

Foubier was unphased.

"Oh, if only it were that simple," he said, suddenly serious.

He was looking beyond the window to the harbour, lost on old horizons.

Almost as quickly as he had grown serious, he brightened.

"Come back this evening," he said, picking up the bottle, "This, and more, will be here waiting for you all."

"What have we to celebrate?" Athos said, sadly.

"Athos ..." Foubier replied, "This is _my_ harbour; I know every nook and cranny; every warehouse. If she is to be found, I will find her. Her passage is paid for, whichever tide we take."

He rose and strode out, without a backward glance, the bottle still in his hand.

Athos watched him leave. He saw the straight back, the squared shoulders, the bearing; perhaps for the first time. He had been right to think this was an unusual man. It seemed, they had something in common. The extent of it, he did not know, but he felt perhaps this Privateer; this smuggler, was a man of honour, and he sat back, a little more at peace; awaiting the others.

 **To be continued ...**

 **A/N: Bourgogne Wines** :

In the 17th century in the Bourgogne winegrowing region, the influence of the various religious communities began to wane. Gradually, they sold off their plots of vines to the upper middle classes and to local nobility, whose interest in the wines of Bourgogne would grow.

In the French Court at the start of the 17th century, it was the wines of Champagne – at the time vinified similarly to Bourgogne wines, which enjoyed the most success.

Later, King Louis XIV's physician, Fagon, advised the king to take "old Bourgogne wine" as a dietary beverage. This prescription, known as the " _Ordonnance de Fagon_ " (1693), had a beneficial effect on the sovereign's health. And from then on, the Court took to drinking Bourgogne wines. Under Louis XV and Louis XVI, the whole of the French aristocracy became passionate about Bourgogne wines.

( )


	18. Chapter 18

oOo

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Foubier was right; he knew his harbour.

That evening, his barmaid passed them a note. They had been searching all afternoon and Foubier had been nowhere in sight. Athos was beginning to think he had been mistaken in the man's intent, until the note appeared before them. Now, they looked at the distinctive writing; Athos thought it could be no-one else but Foubier, it was an educated hand, to say the least. He was arrogant enough to believe they would know it was him, even without a signature. The man was careful; he obviously did not wish to leave even the smallest item to incriminate himself.

Porthos picked up the note and read it aloud.

" _Meet me by the dry dock on the west harbour. She is found_."

"Thank God," Treville breathed, as he rose without further ado. The others followed, their only thoughts being to comply with Foubier's request.

Outside the tavern, they moved to the quay side, and looked along the western side. There stood the tall metal structure of the dry dock, looming on the dimly lit quay. They had no choice but to make their way there. They moved as one to meet a man none of them was sure they fully trusted.

As they approached, the shadows moved, and Jacque-Luc was before them.

"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "three men have been seen; they are inside."

They stood in silence, watching Foubier, before Treville nodded and turned to his men.

"We split up ..." Treville said quietly.

Before he could finish, a door opened ahead spilling light across the cobbles onto the quay.

Two familiar figures emerged, clearly visible, and Porthos tensed.

"That's Recule and Verdier," he growled.

Just then the two turned and realising they had been seen, they took off.

"They're mine!" Porthos shouted as he charged after them.

To their surprise, Foubier took off after him, leaving Treville, Aramis and Athos to the warehouse.

"Aramis," Treville said urgently, "Go around the back, Athos and I will take the front. Be careful, Foubier said three men have been seen but we don't know how many are in there.

Aramis nodded and settled his hat firmly on his head, before creeping off, skirting behind crates and lobster pots as he made his way into the shadows at the rear of the warehouse.

Treville and Athos drew their swords and moved to the door that Recule and Verdier had emerged from.

Once inside, Treville moved to the right, and Athos to the left.

Visibility was poor, but ahead, Treville could see a bright light and he made his way quietly toward it, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword; aware of the weight in his hand.

Ahead, he could see two figures, one standing and one sitting on a bank of crates. From the demeanour of the sitting figure, he could see it was Elizabeth. She was sitting with her head down, her hair falling around her shoulders. Her hands appeared to be tied in front of her. The man was standing over her, shouting.

Treville could feel his blood beginning to boil. Looking around, he could not see any other captors.

And so he took a cautious step closer, and tapped his sword twice on the floor.

"This is a fruitless endeavour, Monsieur. Your paymaster is wrong."

At the sound of Treville's voice, the man spun around.

Taking in the lone Treville, he sneered.

"There are six of us; you won't leave this harbour."

"There _were_ six," a casual voice said, from the shadows and Aramis stepped into the light, "I believe your numbers are somewhat diminished. Gaspar Recule has misinterpreted this situation."

Elizabeth's head had lifted at the sound of Treville's voice and now she was looking from him to Aramis, her eyes bright.

But the man was giving no ground, and he pulled a pistol and pointed it at Elizabeth.

"This woman is worthless," another voice said, and Athos appeared from the shadows to the man's right.

The man whirled around and now faced three armed Musketeers.

"What do you hope to gain from this?" Athos continued, his voice low with venom.

"Gaspar said she was worth it," the man hissed.

Athos took a step forward.

"She is just a prisoner, being transported to face justice, and the wrath of the English court."

The man faltered. His eyes slid from them and flickered around the warehouse.

Athos took the moment to catch Elizabeth's eye. She had risen to her feet, watching the proceedings. She did not seem too perturbed by the gun pointing at her. Athos raised her eyes to the roof, and she gave him an imperceptible tilt of her head.

"For someone who is _worthless_ ," the captor snarled at Treville, snapping back to confront them once more, "You are going to a lot of trouble, _Musketeers_."

He too, seemed unperturbed by the three of them, no doubt believing himself to have the upper hand.

"We merely seek to bring our Captain back, under orders of the King," Athos said authoritatively, before taking his eyes from the man, and turning to Treville.

"I am sorry, Captain, but the moment you left Paris, you relinquished your command. Your infatuation with this woman has been your downfall and I must insist that you now accompany us back to face His Majesty."

Athos drew his pistol and aimed it at Treville, who was now looking at him in confusion.

Between them, Elizabeth's captor stilled, now looking as confused as Treville, and for a moment nobody moved.

"Now!" Athos suddenly shouted.

At that moment, on his perceived signal, Elizabeth raised her tethered hands above her head and took hold of a heavy hook above her head. It was attached to a pulley, used to move items across the warehouse. She swung it toward her captor, who now had his back to her. It did not take much to set it in motion. In an instant, it glided soundlessly into the back of the man's head. It felled him instantly, sending him crashing to the floor.

Elizabeth shuddered.

Aramis laughed, and stepped forward to cut Elizabeth's bonds.

Athos resheathed his sword and replaced his pistol.

"My apologies," Athos said, looking at a confounded Treville and a smiling Elizabeth. "It was the best I could come up with at short notice."

Treville smiled at his Lieutenant's obvious discomfort. Carefully avoiding Elizabeth's eye, however, he turned toward the door.

"Let's get out of here," he said gruffly.

Aramis smirked and clapped Athos on the shoulder and they both stepped back to allow Elizabeth to pass in front of them as they left the warehouse. She gave them an amused smile as she passed. Only weeks ago, she would have blushed to the roots of her hair at Athos's albeit fake declaration, but she had changed and had the measure of these men now.

Outside, Foubier and Porthos could be seen, walking back toward them along the quay. They were alone.

"Too late," Porthos called out, panting for breath; it had apparently been quite a chase.

"I thought you said you knew every nook and cranny," Athos addressed Foubier, disdainfully.

"I cannot see in the dark, Monsieur," Foubier retorted, archly.

For a moment, Athos thought Foubier was going to use his former title, and he tensed. His brothers were unaware of his background and he wanted it kept that way. But Foubier did not give him away. He merely met his eye knowingly before his eyes shifted to Elizabeth.

"Mistress Cromwell," he said with a bow. "I trust you have not suffered unduly from your latest ordeal?"

He was making light of it, and Elizabeth welcomed it.

"Thank you Captain Foubier," she replied softly, "I have had worse."

She unconsciously took a step next to Treville. He reached into his jacket and handed her the glove she had dropped, and in that instant, she and Treville were back on equal footing. Then they all walked back along the quay, eyes scanning for any sign of Recule or Verdier.

Later that night, as they all crowded around a table in Foubier's tavern, enjoying some of his excellent wine, Porthos leaned toward Aramis.

"Do you think they've 'ad enough?"

Aramis looked around the table, in puzzlement.

"Not _them_!" Porthos said in exasperation, "Recule and Verdier!"

"Ah!" he replied, absently rubbing his still-bruised chest. "No, my friend, I do not. Not in the least."

During the evening, they had recounted their experiences and Foubier had looked impressed.

Their latest hapless pursuer had said there had been six of them in total. Treville had told of his encounter with the man at the barn and Aramis had recounted his tale of the two left to their fate on the road to Dieppe.

"It seems, Gentlemen," Foubier said, "that, in total, you have now despatched four of your pursuers." He raised his glass to them.

"That leaves Recule and his mate," Porthos growled. "I 'ope they show in the mornin'. I'd like a piece of them," he added.

"We cannot miss the morning tide, my friends," Foubier warned. "And you cannot afford to cause a brawl. There are men here who have been kicking their heels for days due to the storms. Some of them would love a fight. I have a weighty consignment to despatch, and do not wish to spend the morning explaining any disagreements to the authorities."

For a moment, they had forgotten he was a smuggler. It had almost felt as if he was one of their own.

"We cannot allow them to remain at large," Athos said quietly, turning to Treville, "You must board in the morning."

Aramis looked up then, and smiled the familiar sort of sly smile that made Athos raise an eyebrow.

 **To be continued ...**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Three more chapters, and our tale is told.

Now, just what is Aramis planning?

oOo

 **CHAPTER NINETEEN**

 **The next morning, before the morning tide:**

Gaspar Recule had now worked out how Treville had led Elizabeth Cromwell to safety from the Chatelet, dressed as a Musketeer cadet.

Verdier had seen Treville on the quay two days before and had hurried back to tell Recule. They had lain in wait, and sure enough, Recule had recognised her when the light from the tavern doorway had fallen briefly across her face. They had seen her garb, and realisation had dawned on Recule.

He had sent his remaining man, Monchat; unknown to the Musketeers, to steal her away. Somehow, they had been discovered, and Recule and Verdier had had to run for their lives, leaving Monchat and the girl in the warehouse.

Now, he stood over his man, who lay dead on the warehouse floor, his skull crushed.

"No matter," he said, brutally, as he stared at the body. "There is only one way out of Boulogne for them, and they cannot tarry any longer."

He had sent word to Edmund Temple to say Elizabeth Cromwell was dead, and he awaited the expected payment. However, despite his lie as to her fate, he was not sure he could trust an Englishman he had never met, and this woman was still a prize. He would make these Musketeers pay. Four of his men now dead were testament to her worth. If Temple sent the money, so much the better.

Now, they watched for Treville and his "cadet" who would soon have to appear on the quayside and await consent to board the ship currently being loaded up and made ready.

oOo

A short distance away, Aramis sat out of sight on a crate behind one of the sheds, which was currently being emptied of goods to be relocated on some of the vessels now making ready to depart.

He had found the right person and now just had to bide his time.

He watched the man working, loading crates and barrels on to a merchant ship. Once finished, the man made his way back toward the shed.

Aramis was sitting with his hat low over his eyes, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

He was in the way.

The young man stopped and looked at him.

"Am I in your way?" he asked sarcastically, staring down at Aramis.

Aramis looked up and smiled.

The young man was slightly but powerfully built, a consequence of manual labour. Aramis judged him to be in his early twenties, and satisfactory for his purpose.

"I have a proposition for you, my friend,"

"To do what?"

"To accompany me onto that ship," Aramis pointed to a three masted ship currently making ready to sail within the hour.

Before the man could respond, Aramis finished his request.

"And then, to accompany me off," he said.

"It's a long distance voyage," the man said, scornfully.

Aramis smiled and took off his hat, running his hand through his hair.

"To accompany me off the ship, back on to _this_ quay," he said. "Almost immediately," he finished.

The young man frowned.

"I will make it worth your while, mon ami, and you will not miss your mid-day meal," Aramis said.

There was only one stipulation.

The young man was about to step away, but something stopped him. The look on this man's face perhaps; cunning, but pleasant. An unusual combination. And the coins he was currently flipping through his fingers.

"Tell me ..." the young man said, interested now.

Aramis stood up and placed his arm around the young man's shoulder; drawing him into the shed.

oOo

Recule and Verdier watched as the two passengers made their way on board, cloaks drawn around them and heads and eyes down.

Foubier stood on the foredeck watching his crew stowing his cargo; ensuring his orders were all being followed to his satisfaction.

His two passengers are safely placed, sitting with their backs to the deck, huddled in their cloaks, watching the exit from the harbour and the choppy water beyond. A light rain had commenced, and in the dawn gloom, the water still reflected the oil lamps from various vessels vying to leave on the early morning tide. A weak sun was threatening to melt the thin grey cloud, its appearance would soon break through, ending the grey days they had become accustomed to.

Amid the mariners awaiting Foubier's order to weigh anchor and free the ship from its mooring, there was a sudden angry shout.

Recule and Verdier had stormed onboard the boat, pistols levelled.

"What is the meaning of this?" Foubier shouted, coming to the edge of the foredeck and glaring down at them, his hands on his hips.

"I believe you have my prisoner," Gaspar Recule ground out, as Verdier covered the two passengers.

The two passengers straightened, as Recule shouted at them to stand.

Their quarry both stood, as ordered, and turned to face him. Recule emitted a cry of surprise, looking around him in confusion.

For the faces he saw looking back at him were not Treville and the woman, but two men, unknown to him.

"I believe you are mistaken, Sir," the man he believed to be Treville said, pleasantly.

Aramis and the young man who had consented to help him earlier, both smiled. The young man was now clothed in the spare cadet uniform Aramis had stored in his bags when he left the Garrison. Both were quite enjoying themselves.

Behind them, right on cue, Athos strode up the gang plank, with Porthos closely behind.

Recule is now completely beside himself.

"You!"

"Just so," replied Athos, as he and Porthos relieved Recule and Verdier of their pistols.

Recule stared at the Captain on the upper deck, but all he received in return was a shrug of his shoulders.

To confuse Recule further, Athos proceeded to ignore them and walked over to Aramis, and smiled.

"If you will accompany us, my friend, I believe this ship is about to sail."

When Recule and Verdier stepped toward the gang plank, not quite believing what was happening, but seeking to escape; Foubier commenced a slow, steady walk down the steps from the upper deck where he had been watching with some amusement. It was now his turn in their game, and he was nothing if not a showman.

"Sirs," he addressed Recule and Verdier, "I cannot allow you to leave, we are about to sail and no-one leaves a ship once the call is made," he gave the men a dramatic bow, and straightened, resting his hand on the ornate hilt of his sword.

"But," Verdier gasped, "You have made no such call!"

Foubier laughed, and a wolfish smile then spread across his face as he looked around him at his crew, who all joined in, enjoying the game.

"Oh, but I did, Sir, you cannot have heard; is that not so lads?" he called around to his men, receiving a chorus of "Aye, Cap'n!"

Athos stepped back and escorted Aramis and the young man toward the gang plank, followed by Porthos, who was laughing and rubbing his hands together.

"But," Recule cried, panic beginning to set in, "You are allowing _them_ to leave!"

Foubier stepped forward toward Recule, and pinned him with a deadly look.

"I have unlawful business to attend to, Sir; there is no place for King's Musketeers on this voyage."

Watching from the quayside, Athos could not help suppress a smile.

Recule and Verdier knew when they were beaten, and both sat down heavily on the crates that Foubier pointed out to them. Several large crew members placed themselves in front of them.

Looking out to the quay, the forlorn men saw Treville and Elizabeth on the balcony of the boarding house. Both waved at the men, now trapped on the boat, before making their way down onto the quay to join the others.

Aramis had fairly jumped from the gang plank on to the quay, clapping the grinning young man on the shoulder and dropping some coins into his hand.

"Thank you my friend! I, er ... just need the uniform back."

The young man laughed and went back toward the shed where he had left his own clothes.

Foubier saw all was ready with his crew and gave the order to cast off. He came ashore himself then, leaving the voyage to his first mate, who was well accustomed to taking charge.

"Where do they sail?" asked Athos him nonchalantly.

"I believe, in the _first_ instance, to Madeira," Foubier replied, innocently.

Porthos laughed.

"It could have been worse," Athos replied.

"So that's why you brought the spare leathers," Porthos clapped Aramis on the back.

"It's always a good idea to have a disguise," Aramis whispered conspiratorially to his friend. "I simply reasoned that Recule would eventually work out how she left the Chatelet, dressed as a cadet. I must admit, I did think she would have discarded the uniform and reverted to more ... feminine attire, as soon as she was able. Using her original disguise to finally escape France was always going to entice him."

"That was very forward-thinking of you," Athos said, raising an eyebrow at a smirking Aramis.

"'E knows all about disguises," Porthos said, grinning.

"Well, either way," Aramis replied, "It all worked out in the end. He saw her in the warehouse, and knew she wore the uniform."

Treville and Elizabeth were to make the Channel crossing with Foubier in a lugger, a popular vessel amongst smugglers. This was now moored further along the quay, awaiting their arrival.

Aramis's original plan was for Foubier to slip out of harbour with Treville and Elizabeth in the two masted lugger before any confrontation with Recule and Verdier, but once Foubier knew the plan, he insisted on playing a part and had boarded his main vessel, prepared to enjoy himself.

Treville had therefore taken the opportunity during Aramis's diversion to make his way surreptitiously to the lugger and stow their meagre possessions, returning in time to watch the outcome with Elizabeth, and enjoy Recule and Verdier's fate. Foubier had assured him that it would be quite some time before they could attempt their return to France, by which time Treville would ensure a welcoming party would await them. If not Musketeers, then certainly, the Red Guard.

Foubier 's main cargo was now making its way from the harbour with two unwilling deckhands, whose lives would now be made very difficult. Jacque-Luc himself had business in Deal, so Treville's arrangements had suited him, and he was more than happy to ensure their crossing in his smaller boat.

It was a voyage of seventeen leagues from Boulogne sur Mer to Deal in Kent; a three hour crossing. For once, the weather was fair.

Now that Recule and Verdier were putting to sea, the time soon came to say their farewells.

Elizabeth was really lost for words as to how to thank these three men of Treville's.

Aramis was the first to step forward and raise her fingers to his lips, followed by Athos, and finally Porthos.

"Gentlemen, you will always be very dear to me. You have risked all to bring me to this point," she said quietly. "I will always remember your kindness."

"Temple is a man without honour, Elizabeth," Athos said firmly, "remember your worth."

"The Captain will see you right," Porthos said, giving her a smile she would also remember.

Treville stepped forward then and straightened, their Captain once more. He looked at Athos, and patted his pocket, where the two letters were.

"We will soon see what Richelieu thinks is so important," he said.

"Do you wish us to wait?" Athos asked him, finally.

"No," Treville answered. "You have all done enough. More than enough."

"And Pellart may be ready to be relieved, it _was_ a swift promotion," Aramis replied brightly, thinking of the man they had left in charge of the Garrison.

Treville shook hands with his three men, and then he and Elizabeth climbed on board the lugger, and Foubier made ready to cast off himself; the only crew member.

Before he did, he looked over at Athos.

"Do you trust me now, Athos?" he called.

"I do Jacques-Luc," he replied, tilting his head.

The Musketeers watched as Foubier raised the two crimson sails and set course, and soon the lugger was on its way.

Aramis gave a single wave, before turning to his brothers, and rubbing his gloved hands together.

"Come, let us celebrate now, my friends. I for one am glad to see them leave France."

"It is not over yet," Athos replied quietly.

His thoughts were turning to a headstrong Queen and a treacherous courtier.

 **To be continued ...**


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

" _If I had any satire left to write,_

 _Could I with suited spleen indite,_

 _My verse should blast that fatal town,_

 _And drown'd sailors' widows pull it down;_

 _No footsteps of it should appear,_

 _And ships no more cast anchor there._

 _The barbarous hated name of Deal shou'd die,_

 _Or be a term of infamy;_

 _And till that's done, the town will stand_

 _A just reproach to all the land."_

(Written by Daniel Defoe; 1660-1731)

oOo

Onboard the lugger, Foubier passed them each a tot of rum, and they began to relax.

"As soon as we reach Greenwich, Jean, I will ensure your wound is looked at," Elizabeth said.

She had noticed how he had walked carefully and grimaced at any strain put upon his back. Now, with the roll of the waves beneath them, he was uncomfortable and spent most of the voyage standing.

For his part, Treville did not protest. He had been glad of his men's appearance, but he did not like to admit that he was feeling less than his best and he would need his wits about him when they reached the Palace.

The impressive white cliffs that signalled England came into view and Foubier manoeuvred the boat so that they began to hug the coastline. They moved past Dover; its imposing castle bearing down on the town.

A little further along the coast, was Deal.

oOo

Deal had developed into a port by the end of the thirteenth century. Its strategic location led Henry VIII to construct the castles of Sandown, Deal and Walmer around the town to deter foreign naval attack. The town's shoreline, close to the notorious Goodwin Sands, made its coastal waters a source of both shelter and danger. The Downs, the water between the town and the sands, provided a natural, sheltered anchorage. Despite the absence of a harbour, the town was to become a much more significant port as time went by.

17th century Deal was notorious as a location of smugglers. The shortest channel crossing from the east Kent coast to northern France had not escaped their attention. The coastline was well supplied with shingle or sand beaches on which it was simple to draw up a boat.

oOo

Eight days after escaping Paris, on a raw misty morning, Treville and Elizabeth Cromwell reached England.

"Welcome home, Elizabeth," Treville says quietly.

oOo

This was a place Jacques-Luc Foubier knew well.

Some four hours after leaving Boulogne harbour, he expertly lowered the sails and guided the lugger into Deal and moored on the northern most part of the riverside. There was an amount of French brandy contraband to offload, as Foubier did not sail with an empty hold. Smugglers here had little opposition. Everything had a price and anything could be bought.

At first sight, Treville saw that Deal was a dull place with a long flat beach. Small, irregular houses, of wood and brick, were scattered along a long stonework wall, as was a copious scattering of capstans, where numerous boats were moored.

Foubier, a Frenchman, took obvious enjoyment in slipping in and out of the many inlets on the south coast and earning money from Englishmen. He had taken money from Treville for this voyage, but Treville was a soldier, Foubier knew, who would fight his country's enemies and so he had his respect. Still, Treville would be relieved to be free of him and in charge of his own destiny once more.

He helped Elizabeth ashore and Foubier accompanied them, directing them to a safe local hostelry, where they all rested briefly, eating in a back room. Elizabeth sat in the shadows, her hair firmly pinned beneath her hat, her eyes down. They attracted little attention and then Treville and Elizabeth followed Foubier to buy her more appropriate clothes with which to enter a Royal enclave; from a smuggler's wife who asked no questions. Once at Greenwich, she has friends who will provide more appropriate clothing.

They cannot linger. The place was a hive of mischief at the very least, and Treville was weary now; his back was sore, and he preferred a horse to a boat any day of the week. They had little money left, but enough for two strong steeds. Elizabeth does not discard her Musketeer uniform yet; it is a journey of twenty two leagues from Deal to Greenwich, which will take them the best part of this day and more tomorrow; and she is now used to the relative comfort that the leather breeches provide on the back of a horse.

Foubier wishes them well, as they prepare to leave on the final leg of their journey. With luck they would reach Greenwich the following day.

"If you are ever in need of a Privateer, _Captain_ , I hope you will give me your business,"

Treville narrowed his eyes and looked from him to Elizabeth.

"Sorry, I told him you were the Captain of the King's Musketeers," she said. "He guessed you were something of the sort!"

Treville reached out his hand, "You can be sure of it, _Captain"_ he said, with a nod.

Foubier kissed Elizabeth's hand. "You are the finest looking boy I have seen in a long while," he said, holding her gaze.

"And you are the finest dressed smuggler I have ever met!" she laughed.

And then with a bow, Jacques-Luc Foubier smiled, turned on his heel and headed back to his boat.

Treville and Elizabeth looked at each other, as they took hold of their horses's reins.

Now, their destination was the impressive Palace of Placentia, on the banks of the River Thames. It is the birthplace of Kings and Queens of England.

And perhaps, the rebirth of Elizabeth Cromwell.

oOo

Their horses proved their worth, and they reached an inn, The Royal Oak, before nightfall, where they talked into the night about their coming ordeal.

Richelieu's mysterious letter was safe. His instructions were that it was not to be opened unless negotiations and testimony against Edmund Temple was faltering.

In the morning, Elizabeth Cromwell finally discarded her uniform and put on the plain green dress and cloak with which to ride onto the royal estate.

oOo

 **The Palace of Placentia, on the banks of the River Thames**

There had been a royal manor house in Greenwich, on the banks of the River Thames, since the reign of Edward I.

A grant of two hundred acres would see Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester create a royal park and a further grant would complete the redesign in 1433 of his manor house. It was renamed The Palace of Placentia in 1447 when it came under the control of the Crown. Henry VII would lavish such funds as to see it enlarged, and it was here that Henry VIII was born in 1491. It became his primary palace where he indulged himself with huge parties, jousting matches and banquets. It in this palace that his royal daughters, Mary I and Elizabeth I were born. It was said that in these grounds, Sir Walter Raleigh threw his cloak over a puddle for Queen Elizabeth to cross without danger of ruining her royal footwear.

It was here that Henrietta Maria established a presence in the glorious white two storey high Palace. It stretched two hundred meters along the foreshore on the sweep of the Thames, giving views of the ships traversing the magnificent waterway at her front. At her back were the hunting forests of Blackheath and the old Roman Road to Kent.

To Elizabeth Cromwell, it was familiar. To Captain Jean Treville, it was daunting, and would be the making or breaking of him.

oOo

The Letter of Authority bearing Cardinal Richelieu's impressive seal was shown at the main gatehouse and was enough to grant them access. Treville stowed the letter back in his jacket, next to Richelieu's second missive and they were both directed to the extensive stable building where they left their mounts under the care of numerous stable boys. Treville had cast an envious eye over the impressive horseflesh on show, before following a page into the wing on the eastern side of the main building, to await further instructions.

Elizabeth had kept her word and had insisted that Treville should have his wound checked once they are at the Palace, and a physician had been sent for. She had smiled when the doctor had announced her stitches " _commendable_ ," as he had removed the majority of them, with instructions that the remaining six be removed the following week.

Richelieu's letter requesting an audience had been delivered into the Palace earlier and Treville and Elizabeth had been waiting as patiently as possible for two hours in the east wing of the Palace.

They were beginning to think they would not be seen today, when suddenly the ornate doors ahead of them were opened.

Queen Henrietta Maria swept out of her apartments.

Elizabeth dropped into a curtsey as Treville straightened his right leg and bowed.

"Captain Treville," the Queen said, coming to a halt in front of them;

"It is good to see a loyal Frenchman and the Captain of my dear brother's elite Musketeers."

"Your Majesty," he said deferentially; sure in this instance, of the Queen's sincerity in light of her unpopularity in her husband's homeland.

Keeping his eyes on the Queen, Treville saw that Henrietta Maria did not acknowledge, nor look at Elizabeth, who had appeared to shrink back to the edge of the room.

As he straightened, several members of the court filed into the room, taking their place behind the Queen.

One, in particular, stepped directly behind the Queen.

It was Sir Edmund Temple.

Treville saw that in his hand was Richelieu's open Letter of Authority, its seal now broken.

It appeared, to all intent and purpose that he would be in charge of the proceedings.

Treville's eyes slid across to Elizabeth, standing at the side of the room.

She looked, terrified.

 **To be continued ...**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** So, I was doing a final edit of this chapter, and everyone suddenly had a lot more to say for themselves! I've therefore split it into two, which means there are now two more chapters to go.

oOo

 **CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**

Edmund Temple had expected to see Treville only. When he saw Elizabeth Cromwell, his mouth had fallen open, in utter shock. He had thought she was dead. He had received word to that effect from Recule, requesting the final payment.

This, of course, he had ignored.

Henrietta Maria held out her hand, and after a few lost moments, he placed the letter of authority in her hand.

The Queen Consort was small in stature, her hair swept up and back, with a tumbrel of curls over her right shoulder. Smaller curls framed her face. She had very striking large brown eyes, a beautiful complexion and the long Bourbon nose, a compensation for her somewhat protruding teeth. Her arms were long and thin, made more so by the voluminous sleeve of her beautiful burgundy silk gown.

In this room, however, she was the most powerful woman in England, however unpopular, and she commanded her position.

"You seek an audience, Captain," the Queen said, reading the parchment.

"I do, Your Majesty," Treville replied, respectfully inclining his head.

"At the Cardinal's request," she added, looking up. "Is this not unusual?"

"It concerns a matter of utmost importance, Majesty," Treville replied.

"Speak, then," she commanded.

Treville looked at Edmund Temple, and detected a look in his eye he did not like. The man reminded him briefly of Richelieu; dressed as he was entirely in black from head to toe, with a wide red diagonal sash across his doublet, which matched the red ribbons on his shoes.

"As you know, Your Majesty," Treville began, "Mistress Elizabeth Cromwell has been held on no charge in the Chatelet ..."

Before he could continue, the Queen interjected.

"And yet, here she is, Captain Treville," she half turned to Elizabeth, who lowered her eyes. "Why is that?" she added, waving the parchment in Elizabeth's direction.

"Your life is in danger, Majesty; we both come to bear testimony and lay out the facts."

"And Richelieu condones this?" she asked, haughtily.

"Any attack on your life is an attack on France, Majesty," Treville replied.

"Very diplomatic, Captain," she replied, with a smile that did not reach her eyes;

"As I understand it, Captain, Mistress Cromwell divulged our plans, and put our life in danger," the Queen said quietly.

"Under duress, Majesty," Treville said.

"Under duress from whom?" she countered.

Treville's eyes slid once more to Sir Edmund, who had now taken a step closer to the Queen. He had no doubt that this man had had weeks to influence Henrietta Maria and turn her to his way of thinking. How deep his hold, Treville had yet to find out.

"From one of your own," Treville replied, "Sir Edmund Temple."

The Queen showed no emotion. Treville had no idea how much she knew; what she and Richelieu had communicated to each other, or what she actually felt about either Temple or Elizabeth. All he knew was that this discussion was balanced on a knife edge.

Her next utterance opened the discussion fully.

"What say you, Sir Edmund?" she said, still looking at Treville, but tilting her head to acknowledge Temple's presence behind her.

"I say it is ridiculous, Madam," he replied confidently, before stepping forward to continue.

Henrietta Maria's gaze slid to Elizabeth, still standing apart from them, her eyes down.

"Explain, Captain," she said, raising her hand to stop Sir Edmund and thus ignoring his attempt to elaborate.

Sir Edmund Temple straightened behind her, and licked his lips.

Treville caught the nervous action.

Treville spoke of the convergence of assassins in the Forest of Brotonne. His emphasis was on the English, who Porthos and Aubin Fabron had tracked following their ambush on his Musketeers. She knew of the ambush itself. It had kept her within the grounds of the Louvre in fear of personal attack, and at her brother Louis's insistence; not least in his fear for his own life.

However, she had been protected from the details of the attack in the Forest of Brotonne. If her husband, Charles I, had become aware of it, it would have caused a diplomatic incident. Richelieu was insistent on secrecy.

"How do you know Sir Edmund had anything to do with the attack in the Forest?" the Queen said. "He and his family before him have been loyal servants to the Crown for many years."

Again, Treville caught Temple's triumphant smirk.

Treville had no answer for that. He had no such proof.

Queen Henrietta Maria now looked at Elizabeth.

"And what say you, Mistress Cromwell? Come forward."

Whatever Elizabeth said now would seal her fate.

Before she could speak, Sir Edmund spoke up.

"Would you listen to her lies, Majesty?"

Henrietta Maria held up her hand, and he stilled.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and came forward.

"Your Majesty, it is true that I gave this man information of the royal route during the visit to Paris. Before we left England, he initiated a conversation about my brother's ambitions to become a Member of Parliament, and then threatened to destroy him if I did not comply with his wishes. I had no choice. My only hope was that I could give him false information. That proved impossible. However, when Your Majesty made the decision to bypass the Hunting Lodge in favour of visiting your cousin at the Chateau de Saint-Paterne, I finally saw my opportunity."

"Go on," the Queen said.

Elizabeth looked at Treville, who nodded in encouragement.

"Although I was privy to the fact that you were detouring from our destination, I did not divulge that information to Sir Edmund. The English assassins therefore had no knowledge of your new destination."

"Mistress Cromwell's loyalty did, in large part, keep you from harm that day, Your Majesty," Treville said. "She also personally despatched one of the assassins."

Henrietta Maria's eyebrows raised at that, and she looked at Elizabeth with an expression of surprise.

Treville relaxed a little. Their argument must surely now swing in Elizabeth's favour.

"What say you to this, Sir Edmund," the Queen said. "Did you place duress upon Mistress Cromwell?"

Aware that all eyes in the room were on him, Sir Edmund became instantly deferential.

"Why would I do that, Your Majesty?" he said, his voice dripping with honey. "I have only recently supported Mistress Cromwell's brother in his bid to become the Member of Parliament for Cambridge. I have nothing against the Cromwell family! I am most shocked to learn she had divulged Your Majesty's plans to a third party, and thereby, endangered your life."

Treville sighed inwardly. They had reached a stalemate. One's word against the other. Sir Edmund's disclosure that he had in fact supported Elizabeth's brother since his return from France was a blow to their argument.

The Queen was becoming impatient.

"It seems you have come a long way for nothing, Captain," she said.

Treville saw Temple smile in apparent triumph, and it was enough. She was about to call a halt to the proceedings, and he could not allow it. Before she could do so, he spoke;

"Your Majesty, may I speak with you alone?"

Fortunately, her patience had not worn too thin, and she appeared glad of a reprieve from the proceedings. Treville followed her into her apartments; leaving her entourage, Temple and Elizabeth in the room.

Once alone with the Queen, Treville gave her Richelieu's letter.

Seeing the seal, she looked at Treville.

"Why did you not give me this earlier?"

"I am following the Cardinal's strict instructions, Your Majesty," Treville replied. "He requested I give you this letter if we reached a stalemate; which I believe, with respect, we have."

"That damn man is all smoke and mirrors," she sighed, breaking the seal.

Her mother, Marie de Medici, had had a somewhat strained relationship with the Cardinal, but had known his worth. Henrietta Maria knew of her brother's devotion to him, and also, his dependence.

She opened the parchment, sitting at her secretaire to read his distinctive script.

"Do you know what the Cardinal speaks of?" she murmured, as she read.

"No, Your Highness," he frowned.

"Henry Simmonds? Does this name mean anything to you?"

The name meant nothing to him.

"No, Your Highness, it does not," he replied; his mind working furiously.

"It seems Sir Edmund knows him. According to Richelieu, he met with him in Paris."

She passed the letter to him.

He bowed briefly before stepping aside to read it to the end.

Slowly, realisation began to dawn on him, and it made sense.

Something about that day at the Hunting Lodge had always bothered him.

Treville had seen recognition in Sir Edmund's eyes when he had encountered the lone assassin on the stairs of the Hunting Lodge. For a moment, he had thought the man would shoot Sir Edmund, but he had fired first. No identity was found on the man, save for a few English coins.

Richelieu's spies now confirmed the truth. Temple had met with the Privateer Henry Simmonds in Paris. They had seen money and maps being exchanged. The man Treville had killed must have been that man.

Temple had given himself away at the top of those stairs as the two stared at each other. Simmonds could be placed in both locations, and so could Sir Edmund Temple.

This was the evidence he needed.

The Queen had waited patiently, but now her anger rose.

"It was not the Cardinal's place to spy on my court during a visit to my own country!" she suddenly cried, reaching out her hand for the letter.

Treville watched her read it once more, and could see how furious she was with Richelieu. She was missing the point! This was the reaction Richelieu obviously feared. This was why he only wanted this information known if all else failed. Richelieu wanted to protect himself and his spy network at all costs.

Treville had to bring the Queen around.

And so he told her that it was he who had killed Simmonds. The man was only in the Hunting Lodge to plunder while he thought his men were laying in wait to assassinate her. Simmonds was there because of Temple; as were his band of assassins. Again, he reiterated that it was only Elizabeth Cromwell's refusal to divulge her plans that had put her out of harm's way.

She did not speak.

Richelieu's letter had overwhelmed her.

"What proof is there that Elizabeth is loyal?!" she said finally, shocked by these latest revelations, and still unwilling to give way.

oOo

Later:

"Mistress Cromwell," the Queen said, entering the room once more; "Wait in the Blue Room."

Elizabeth dropped into a curtsey and obeyed, somewhat confused. She managed to make brief eye contact with Treville as she swept past him, her head held high, despite what she must be feeling.

This was not going well. She thought she had found her voice but the Queen was a difficult woman at the best of times.

She was shown into the Blue Room by the page, and stepped inside; her heart hammering in her chest. She looked around. It was a small room with one window and although it was warm and opulent as befitted the Palace, she suddenly felt very cold.

On one wall there hung three portraits of unknown males; all of them quite dour, she thought.

After a short while, were she struggled to get her nerves under some semblance of control, the door quietly opened.

She turned, hoping to see Treville with good news, but all her breath left her.

There, standing before her, was Sir Edmund Temple.

He quietly closed the door behind him and fixed her with a glare that almost sent her to her knees.

"You!" she cried, looking around while backing away from him.

"Well, you are a bad penny, Mistress," he sneered, as he crossed the room.

"Have you not done enough?!" she cried, suddenly done with this; tired of this dreadful traitor. She gathered all the strength she had garnered over the last weeks and met his eye solidly.

"Perhaps," he said, watching her.

"The Queen does not believe me," Elizabeth replied, resigned now. "You have worked your insidious schemes on her."

"It was not difficult," Temple said, his voice low, as he walked around her. "The Catholic bitch has her mind on pleasures, not politics."

Elizabeth gasped as his words.

"That will end soon," he continued.

"You still plan your treason on her?!" Elizabeth said.

"She will be dead before the month is out; your appearance is fortuitous – I will say you brought assassins with you, and that poor Treville was duped – that will be the tale I will next spin."

"Traitor!" she cried, moving back as he advanced. "My voice will not be silenced against you. You should kill me now, for I will never betray the Queen!"

"Well, that is an alternative, I suppose," he said, silently drawing a dagger from his belt.

 **To be continued ...**

oOo

*Henry Simmonds appears in the prequel, "An Unlikely Brotherhood," in Chapters 7 and 18.


	22. Chapter 22

So we reach the final chapter, and see if Treville succeeds. Many thanks for reading and reviewing.

 **CHAPTER TWENTY TWO**

"Hold, Sir Edmund," the Queen's voice rang out, as the doors to the Blue Room were thrown open, and she walked purposefully into the room, followed by Treville and a contingent of guards.

Temple turned, aghast, the dagger still in his hand.

Elizabeth slipped quickly away from him and took her place next to Treville. He smiled and took her hand briefly.

The Queen held a letter in her hand, and watched impassively as Temple was disarmed by her guards.

"Our own Cardinal Richelieu sends word of your treachery," she said, waving the parchment at him. "And," she continued, "It seems you display it before us now!"

She turned and held out her hand to Elizabeth; the first act of comfort she had shown the young woman.

Treville saw the moment that realisation dawned on Sir Edmund. He had been so sure of himself; decrying Elizabeth as a traitor; a romancer; a feeble woman trying to save her skin.

But the might of Richelieu and his spy network was to be his downfall.

And, as Elizabeth had accepted her fate at his hand that day in the Forest of Brotonne, so he now must accept his.

He tried to protest once more, but Henrietta Maria held up her hand and called for her guards to take him away.

"It's over Temple," Treville said; not giving the man the benefit of his title, which he would not hold for much longer.

oOo

All became quiet. Sir Edmund looked as if he were about to protest, but a look from the Queen silenced him.

"The Cardinal requests Sir Edmund's presence in my brother's Court," the Queen announced, "To answer the many questions that arise from the ambush of the King's Musketeers, and the assassination attempt on our life."

She turned to look at Sir Edmund, who was now looking ...very sick indeed.

"You cannot!" Sir Edmund cried.

"Be quiet, Sir Edmund!" the Queen said, in a voice that stilled him instantly.

"Once on French soil, you will have the same opportunity as Mistress Cromwell had to plead your case," the Queen said, now fully aware that she had had no such opportunity and neither would he.

"Your Majesty. It will be my pleasure to escort Sir Edmund to Paris," Treville said.

There was an empty cell in the Chatelet, and a missing prisoner. It would be a simple matter to replace one "mysterious prisoner" with the other.

"Very well, Captain. You will have a Royal Guard escort across the Channel to LeHavre. Let us ensure Sir Edmund's safe delivery. I do not wish to disappoint our dear Cardinal."

This time, her smile did reach her eyes.

oOo

"I am sorry, I could not tell you," Treville told Elizabeth later. "Your interaction had to be genuine."

He then told her of his plan and how they had trapped Edmund Temple with his own words, at long last.

Richelieu knew the value of paintings, he said. They could be a window into a room; allowing those in the room to be spied upon. Treville knew which paintings should be avoided in the Louvre. When he had put his plan to the Queen, she had agreed. There would be no need to remove Elizabeth from the Blue Room, she said, there were paintings aplenty on its walls.

She sent word for Sir Edmund to be shown there.

Treville and Henrietta Maria then took their places in the adjoining room, and watched Temple and Elizabeth through the pinprick holes in the painting.

The Queen heard everything.

Treville had known that he was taking a risk. Elizabeth had no knowledge of this plan. He hoped she would make a good account of herself, although he feared her reaction, when confronted by her nemesis.

In the event, she had been magnificent, and he told her so. He only regretted that he had not known Sir Edmund was armed and he had inadvertantly put her in danger.

Elizabeth wondered out loud how many others had been spied on through those three dour paintings.

oOo

She looked ... beautiful.

He had grown so accustomed to seeing her challenged, sad, fearful, fierce ... She had met every challenge, some at his hand; and he had been by her side to see her transformation from Lady in Waiting, to prisoner, to "cadet." And here she was now, transformed again, into a more worldly-wise lady of the English Court.

Gone were the boyish leathers, the torn stockings, the dirty hands and face.

Now, she wore a cream gown, with white lace at the collar and cuffs.

Her blonde hair shone, drawn back from a face that was composed; her complexion was radiant; she was a true English rose.

He bowed, as he would to his own Queen. She stifled a laugh, and reached out her hand, which he drew briefly to his lips.

They walked in the garden then, and she told him of her life at Court. This was her natural environment, he could see that.

"This used to be all I ever wanted," she said, looking around her. "But these past few months have altered me beyond my own recognition."

They sat on a stone bench in the shade.

She had realised, she told him, how precious life was, and had seen the worst of it. She had seen the worst of men. And the best of them, she added, looking at him.

Now, above all, her ambition was to marry and have a family of her own to care for.

Treville found himself watching her. How her hair fell around her shoulders, how relaxed she was becoming, the sparkle in her eyes that he had never seen before ...

At that moment, the sun came out and lit up her hair in a halo of gold. He was lost for a little while then; his breath caught in his chest.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she was saying something, looking away from him across the garden.

He followed her gaze and saw a young man.

"There is a young man," she said, her pale eyes lowered to the ground. As she was saying it, the young man turned and caught her eye. He started to cross the garden, and stopped abruptly a short distance from her, although his eyes took in all of her.

And then the young man smiled.

"Mistress Cromwell! It is so very good to see you; I understood you had stayed on in France, under the care of the King." He too, was breathless.

"Yes," she smiled at Treville knowingly, "That is true, Sir,"

The young man was staring at her, and Elizabeth felt a flush to her cheeks. She turned, and laid a light hand on Treville's arm, which startled him.

"This is Captain Jean Treville, of the King's Musketeers," she said, " _My very dear friend_."

Turning back she introduced the young man. "Captain, this is Simon Burghley."

If a moment should be captured and held in a fragile heart, this was it.

Of course, Treville thought. Of course.

For a brief moment, something broke in him.

Seeing them together, they made an admirable pair. And Elizabeth was more alive than he had ever seen her.

In that moment, something changed. Elizabeth was lost to him; although he had never allowed himself to believe otherwise.

Only perhaps, for a moment; when the sun shone on her hair.

Treville turned inscrutable eyes on Simon Burghley, feeling now almost as protective as a father would at first meeting his daughter's young man.

Treville had his place now.

He was happy for her.

For them.

oOo

The next morning, they met for the final time, on the steps of the Royal House. The Royal guard was lined in formation ahead of a plain coach, in which sat Sir Edmund Temple, restrained in his seat, a lieutenant of the guard sitting opposite him. They were ready to escort Sir Edmund back to Paris to face Louis XIII. Treville chose to ride with the guard, rather than share the coach with the man. He had done that once before, the consequences of which were still etched on his brain.

A few of the Royal staff came out to watch the procession leave, Elizabeth amongst them.

Treville took her hand for the last time.

"I wish you a good life, Elizabeth," he said.

"And you also, dear Jean," she replied. "I will never forget you. Or your brave men."

"Or your Cardinal," she laughed.

It was a wonderful sound, he thought.

Then he took a step back, and turned on his heel, striding toward his horse.

She watched him go, her eyes shining with emotion.

He did not look back.

oOo

 **Two weeks later; The Louvre:**

"Why didn't you give me this information before; that your spies had knowledge of Simmond's and Temple's meeting?"

"I did not know. Once the chest and her jailer disappeared, I made further enquiries. There was nothing to incriminate Temple at the time. Many people meet with Privateers, Captain Treville. You, of all people should know _that_."

Warily, Treville met his gaze. If Richelieu knew about his involvement with Jacques-Luc Foubier, he was not about to confirm it.

"The jailer Recule knew nothing of the chest, Treville answered. "He was merely driven by Temple's promise of reward were she to be freed. And then, he set his eyes on bigger rewards."

Richelieu sighed;

"That is a great pity. There was a particularly valuable bible in that chest. My man packed it by mistake. Such a mistake he will not repeat."

Treville suppressed a smile at the thought of Father Pascal, now the owner of a very precious book indeed.

"I have had correspondence from Henrietta Maria," Richelieu continued, reaching for a parchment on his desk. "There is a place for a new courtier in the English court, in light of a previous one suddenly disappearing;

She has someone called Simon Burghley in mind. He is from an excellent wealthy family, the son of a peer. They have always been loyal to the Crown."

Treville smiled. Elizabeth's "young man."

"That sounds ... very promising," he said softly.

"I thought so too," said the Cardinal; looking at him carefully.

"What of the King?" Treville asked, needing to escape the Cardinal's gaze.

"I told you I would only discuss this with His Majesty if the outcome was favourable," Richelieu replied, before retreating behind his desk. "I believe it has been."

Treville narrowed his eyes, and gave Richelieu a brief nod, before making for the door.

"You live to fight another day, Captain Treville," Richelieu called out, as Treville closed the door.

"Indeed I do." Treville said softly, as he walked away.

 **The End**

oOo

 **EPILOGUE**

If Henri Leclerc, Governor of the Chatelet wondered why his missing female prisoner had been replaced with a male, he said nothing.

The fact that no Red Guard had followed after Elizabeth Cromwell spoke volumes. No retribution had come his way, but he had been offered a new position away from Paris. One he was encouraged to take up.

Thus the Governor of the Chatelet, who Athos had so embarrassed, had been removed by the man he had been trying to impress, Cardinal Richelieu, and had taken up his new position in a prison on the coast to finish his working days.

He therefore would not be there to exact satisfaction on Athos, who would soon find himself incarcerated in The Chatelet; accused of murders he did not commit. It would be Porthos and Aramis who would fight to prove his innocence with the help of a Gascon farm boy. The courtyard they liberated Athos from, in the nick of time, was the same one that Sir Edmund Temple would take his daily brief exercise in later that same day. The same courtyard he would learn, two decades later, that the King of England was dead, and where he would rue the day he ever heard the name "Cromwell."

oOo

And...what of Aubin?

All that Porthos experienced could have been put down to grief, imagination or coincidence.

Or could it?

oOo

 _Thanks for reading!_

I hope to return soon with another modern AU.

Perhaps there may be a future adventure for the Privateer and Musketeer Comtes.


End file.
